


the rose; the prince; the fox

by leiascully



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Happy Ending, M/M, Multi, Post Reichenbach, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 48,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes finds his way back to the land of the living, if he was ever there to begin with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Post-S2  
> Concrit: Welcome  
> A/N: Without **lexieken** , this story would be going nowhere and I'm eternally grateful for the guidance.  
> Disclaimer: _Sherlock_ and all related characters are the property of Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

The flat still smells like Irene. Sherlock can't get the scent of her out of his nose. He follows her trail through the flat like, as John puts it, a rambling bloody bloodhound, Sherlock, you're not going to find her in a cupboard somewhere. Sherlock grunts in response. It's not worth a real answer. John gives him those quizzical, knowing looks, peering under his brows. If Sherlock's a bloodhound, John's a damn terrier: he won't give up on his stupid ideas. He's convinced Sherlock is imagining it. He's convinced that Sherlock has, as he terms it, a crush on Irene, as he relates to Sherlock frequently in what seems excessive detail and he nearly posts it on the blog as well, "Detective searches for his heart" or some nonsense. Sherlock has to threaten to wipe every document John's ever touched to get him to stop, but John still gives him those looks. 

Sherlock is not imagining it.

He washes his bedclothes five times, has Mrs. Hudson put in those smelly little sheets that are supposed to make everything nice. Irene's perfume lingers. He investigates the flat inch by inch. There's nothing new, in his bedroom or anywhere else, but among John's clutter in the bathroom, there are a number of little black pots. Sherlock opens them all. A whiff here, a hint there; they're not Irene's scent, but they're part of it, or similar to it. He claims them, samples them, subjects them to every test he can think of.

"Sherlock?" John says, poking his head around the doorframe. "Have you seen my stuff from Lush? It was on the bathroom counter."

"No," Sherlock says. 

"Ah," John says. He sniffs the air. "Hang on. Sherlock! That was expensive!"

"I'll replace it," Sherlock says, stirring.

"Sherlock," John says, "you're imagining things. You're hallucinating her, all right? Just send her a text if you want to see her so badly. I'm sure you'll find a way to find each other, two clever kids like you." 

"Go away," Sherlock says, scraping another sample of goo out of one of the pots. 

"If you wanted to know what was in them, the ingredients are on the packaging," John says, scooping up the whole collection. His cheeks are pink with irritation. It does make him look as if he needs some sort of salve. It's also rather amusing. He juggles the little pots and glares, as if Sherlock gives a damn about his current strop. "They're on the website, too. Surely you could Google it. You're a damn detective."

"I don't know why you need all of that anyway," Sherlock says. "It doesn't make sense."

"Sarah got me onto it," John says. "Some of us like to take care of our skin. Aside from which, and I know this doesn't apply to you, but women enjoy a man who smells nice. Among other social niceties, I mean, none of which you possess, so it hardly matters."

"Get out," Sherlock tells him. "And get me a sample of the woman-of-the-week's perfume the next time you see her. Spray it on some cotton wool or something, not the tissue you keep crumpled in your pocket."

"They last longer than a week," John mumbles. Sherlock waves him away. 

For God's sake, he needs a case. He needs something besides the woman to occupy his mind. And likely some sort of aerosol odor neutralizer. No man should have to live this way.

\+ + + +

Molly really is invaluable, in no small part because she is a willing and accessible test subject. John has been unbearable with his ridiculous posturing and teasing about what women like. After an interminable period of boredom and Mrs. Hudson threatening half-heartedly to evict them if he puts anymore holes in her walls, Sherlock resolves to test the hypothesis. There's little else to do, these days. He hasn't even got Irene's phone to brood over. It's an easy jaunt to St. Bart's to see if little Molly Hooper can find him anything to do, and a good chance to test John's claims. 

Getting clean isn't generally a luxurious experience. It's what happens when he's been on a case too long and the droop of his hair in his eyes is beginning to distract him, or he smells too strongly of sweat to be able to smell anything else. Sherlock followed the directions on the pasty face wash and the strange bar of shampoo to the letter. He has no idea of why it's supposed to be better than the plain soap he uses; most of what's in it is oils and perfumes, which is frippery, not something that will get the blood and sweat and grime out of his skin. But he breezes into the morgue and stands a little closer to Molly than he usually does, and she blinks at him with even more doe-eyed raptness and takes a deep breath.

"Hello, Molly," he says, in a hearty aren't-we-chums voice. "How are you today?"

"Fine thanks," she says, blinking. "Are you all right?"

"Certainly," he says. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's just you never ask how I am," she tells him, leaning on a stainless steel table. "You only ask what is there to do." 

"Today I'm asking how you are," he says, drifting past her again. She sniffs the air.

"I'm...fine," she says. "Are you...?"

"Am I what?" he asks, all eager solicitation. He reaches over her, pretending to need something, waving his cologne-dabbed wrist past her face. He reeks to his own nose. This is a liability where investigating is concerned. He's relied on his sense of smell for clues before. Now he's drowning in manufactured scent and he would swear there's still a whiff of Irene at the back of his nose, to say nothing of the fact that he keeps looking for John, who is the one who ought to smell this way. Then again, there are worse things than smelling like John. In a way, it's nearly pleasant. Molly seems to think so, the way she leans in and follows him with her body.

"Do you have a date?" she blurts.

He chuckles, as jolly as he can be. "Me, date? Of course not."

"Only you smell nice," she says. "Nicer than usual."

Damn, he thinks. Molly has always paid particular attention to him, however. Perhaps he ought to try it out on Mrs. Hudson instead.

"Hello, Molly," Lestrade says, strolling in. "Sherlock. Somebody smells nice. Did you get a new perfume, Molly?"

"How else might you describe the smell other than nice?" Sherlock asks, leaning closer. No reason not to see if the effect is equally pronounced on men. "Cloying? Alluring? Fresh? Subtle? Are you feeling more positively disposed toward me than usual?"

"Steady on," Lestrade says. "What's going on here?"

"It's him," Molly says, nodding at Sherlock. "He's discovered product. I think."

"Been taking the waters?" Lestrade teases. "You could probably do with a day at the spa, Sherlock. Relax you. Take your mind off...things." He cocks one eyebrow knowingly at Sherlock. Molly stifles a giggle. John must have told them. 

"Your powers of deduction are stunning as usual," Sherlock says.

"Oh, sure. I could deduct you all the way down the corridor," Lestrade says, gesturing over his shoulder. Molly snorts this time.

Sherlock draws himself up. "For your information, I'm doing an experiment. I'm astounded you haven't surmised that I've discovered a way to mask the smell of chloroform in a convenient cologne." He waves his wrist past Lestrade's face and Lestrade jumps. "I haven't," Sherlock continues, "but scents are important, which you would know if you were a serious investigator, Detective Inspector, and speaking of which, what are you doing here?" 

It is unutterably vexing, the nonsense that he has to put up with from his so-called friends. It isn't his fault that they're hopeless at piecing together the most elementary of deductions. It isn't his fault if their senses of smell are the only ones they seem to have developed, either; a little extra here and there to ensure that they'd be affected at all seemed like a good idea at the time, and now they're both snickering at him. 

"I like to drop in," Lestrade says, touching things here and there on the counter. "In between my moments of serious investigating, I like to do some light detecting. The morgue's as good a place as any. You're not the only one with a professional interest in corpses." He's clearly manufacturing excuses to be here and the studied casualness of his round of the room is fooling no one. It must have all fallen through with the cheating wife. Molly's eyes are suspiciously bright. 

Sherlock looks between them and manages not to make a noise of disgust. They couldn't be more obvious if they tried. Their body language says everything he needs to know. Christmas did it, then. After all, Molly's dress and lipstick did emphasize her assets, as much as they can be emphasized. Well. If he wished people happiness, he'd start with them, as long as they don't let it interfere with the work, and as long as they don't start trying to pair him off. 

He makes his excuses and leaves them to their smug happiness. When he turns up the collar of his coat against the damp, it smells like Irene. He turns his face into the wind; her perfume swirls around him.

John is out, and Mrs. Hudson is off visiting someone. He spends the evening practicing his blowgun technique on John's pillow. The blowgun is a deadly, elegant little thing he picked up in the Andaman Islands. He fires dart after dart into the cushion, imagining targeting nodes of Moriarty's syndicate. Altogether, a satisfying diversion, but his mind is still restless. The fit John pitches about his pillow when he finally comes home is an excellent distraction, however.


	2. Chapter 2

He has followed the rumors of Irene. It didn't even require an ear to the ground, per se. A woman of her stature does not blend into the madding crowd. A particularly sinister rumor has him packing a change of clothes. It is simple enough to slip off for a few days to Afghanistan. John is pulling an extra shift at the hospital to make up for the time off he's taking for a mini-break with this month's paramour. It would be a wonder if he noticed if Sherlock took out a wall and rearranged the entire flat.

He ponders the problem all the way to Kabul. Now here is a challenge more interesting than any of the cases he's been brought since she left, none of which took more than a half-hour of concentration. He has limited resources here, no contacts. His Pashto and Persian are somewhere between rusty and non-existent, and his Urdu and Arabic are hardly better. He taps the tips of his fingers together. The airplane seat is uncomfortable and the air is stale, but he hardly knows or cares: his mind is racing with possibilities. He takes a deep breath of air outside the airport. The thrill of the chase jangles in his bones. This is _living_. Still, it's disappointingly easy to track her down and infiltrate the group that holds her. He would have thought to need more than a kaftan, a poor attitude, and a comparatively thin roll of cash. 

It does something to him when she takes out that phone to send him a last text. Something stirs in his chest, just for a moment, a curious feeling. He has her at his mercy once again; once again he has the chance to set her free. She kneels before him, accepting her fate with dignity. She will not beg. For that alone, he would save her. He has so few worthy peers. In his pocket, his phone gasps and she looks up with wide eyes. He grins under the cloth that hides his face and knows she understands him. After so much inactivity, the opportunity to swing a sword is dear to him. He whirls like a dervish, dispensing rough justice, exhilarated by fighting for both their lives. She disappears into the night, only a whiff of her perfume and the marks of her knees in the sand to say she was even there. 

When she doesn't come to him in his hotel after, it's nearly disappointing. He didn't really expect to see her, but there was a hope. He hopes she's truly gone to ground this time. He will not play the bloodhound again and track her by her scent. Success would only injure her. He packs his small bag with a few items of interest and catches his flight back to London. 

And John thinks it's ridiculous when Sherlock doesn't notice he's gone for a couple of hours. Hah.

Somehow, it still gives him a pang to see her phone in the bag. He wonders what of John's would give him that sharp sensation, that splinter through the chest, in another situation. The pistol, maybe, or one of John's hideous jumpers. At least the pistol might serve some purpose.

He does have a heart, then, beyond the vague sense of contentment he gets letting Mrs. Hudson fuss over him. He had always wondered.

\+ + + +

The trouble with having a heart is that it complicates things. The trouble with having a heart is that it distracts him. In his spare moments now, every moment he's not sorting and filing and rearranging information in the lofty palace of his mind, he's thinking of the traces Irene's fingertips left on the buttons of her phone and the perfume of her still haunting his duvet despite all his efforts, or he's tempted to smile at the sight of John dozing in front of the telly, jaw slack and unattractive.

It makes him vulnerable, having a heart. Someone is bound to notice. And somebody does.

And then he dies.

\+ + + +

Fortunately Molly's nearly as quick as he is clever: they sort out the whole thing. It's a sham that could cost her career, but she does it anyway. If it were anybody but Moriarty, he might not have had to take this chance. There's a plus for the side of vulnerable affection, he supposes, and for the woman scorned. He lingers, limping and bruised, caught in the desire to help somehow.

"Go," she says, her hands smeared with blood, Moriarty's corpse cold and pale in front of her, all of it extremely non-regulation. She is glorious, filled with selfless self-righteousness. She isn't doing this because Jim betrayed her. She's doing it because she counts Sherlock among her friends. He does not deserve this after his callous, indifferent life, certainly not from her. But there she is doing it anyway, out of the goodness of her boundless heart. " _Go_ , you idiot."

"Molly Hooper, you are magnificent," he tells her, and he kisses her cheek just once before he disappears.

He haunts John for a time the way the drift of Irene's perfume haunts him, using every disguise he's ever had in his repertoire. After all of this, John will be safe, at least. He will let nothing more happen to John, if it means killing every spy and assassin in London. Sally Donovan was right. He is a dangerous man. He is a man on the edge of humanity. And yet, if it weren't for John, if it weren't for Mrs. Hudson, if it weren't for Irene and to some extent, Mycroft, he wouldn't care. Even from a distance, he can see the details of John's misery. A chin half-shaved. Trousers creased the wrong way. A hint of the old psychosomatic limp. Things anyone could notice. Sherlock wonders what he would see if he could get closer. It has never been harder to hold his tongue than it is in the cemetery - he can't hear John from this distance, but it's never difficult to deduce a broken heart.

In the end there's only so much he can do from London. He liquefies a few assets and begins to do real work, tugging at the threads of Moriarty's web, chasing down whispers, living on cigarette smoke and whatever he can find to eat at the corner store. He scours back alleys in Moscow. He tracks an assassin down the Amazon. He punches a man in the face in an abandoned subway tunnel under New York City. He takes tea and very nearly a few lives in Budapest. He collects half-truths and rumors, distills them down into a name: Moran. He should have known.

At least there's a goal in sight. If he can find out enough, if he can leverage his own networks to gather the information he needs, then he can go back to London. Surely Moriarty would have installed his heir nowhere else.

He takes a moment to indulge himself with news of the few he cares about. England still stands, so Mycroft must be all right, and Mrs. Hudson. John's blog is filled with photos of graffiti. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes." Rough portraits done in spray paint under bridges. "Moriarty was real." It's nearly touching, the public's concern. Ex post facto, of course; they were glad enough to parade him through the streets before. The hit counter is still stuck at 1895. John's prose is terse. There are typographical errors. He's not getting enough sleep. He's desperate and hurting. Sherlock narrows his eyes at the screen. 

Now and again, waking from a few fitful hours of sleep, he will catch a whiff of lavender and sweet orange and think _home_ , but only for a moment. He has never been homesick before. He certainly doesn't have the time to start now.

Still, there's an ache where there was no ache before.


	3. Chapter 3

It should be impossible to track her down, but he's Sherlock Holmes. He knows where to look; or better said, he knows her. He has made a weary way of it, but at the end of that path, he has added another number to the contacts stored in his phone, both under W. 

He sends a text. "Let's have dinner."

She responds, not as quickly as he'd hoped, but not as slowly as he'd feared. "Wear something nice."

They meet in Buenos Aires. He stands when she comes into the restaurant, feeling sleek and strange in his new suit. He is finally in possession of a shirt that doesn't pull and pucker across the chest. Bespoke is certainly cheaper here. He'll tell Mycroft about it one day. 

"You found me," Irene says. Her smile is radiant. 

"You were never lost," he tells her, and her smile glows even brighter.

She smiles as she sits down, smoothing her skirt over her thighs. He studies her over the elaborate menu. She is every bit as stunning as he remembers. The women in the restaurant favor her with long glances from under their lashes; the men frankly stare. Sherlock does not quite understand them. He cannot follow the charges along the circuits that link them to Irene. Lust, attraction, love - he has observed these phenomena. He has deduced them from a glance or a stray mark on a glass. He has not made room for them in his mind. He has severed those connections in his own body, to free up his thoughts. His life has been pure and focused. But his life is over.

"It _must_ be the end of the world," Irene says, with a look that he knows ought to make him feel something. At the very least, it intrigues him when she turns her attention on him this way. She gazes at him over her glass, and the contrast of the red wine and her pale skin and her dark hair is very beautiful. He knows that, aesthetically, and tonight he knows it on some deeper level. He wonders where in his bones he can feel it, that echo of yearning. Perhaps he can run it to ground, find himself out. He has nothing but time, now. Sherlock Holmes' greatest triumph.

"It was the end for us," he tells her.

She purses her lips. "True."

"I thought it might be interesting," he says.

"Darling," she says in a husky voice, "don't treat me as if I'm other people. I had the advantage of you, for a time. That's more than most can say." 

"You are," he tells her, "altogether exceptional." 

Irene smiles. She sets her wine down and reaches out her hand to take his, turning it palm-up on the table and tracing the lines there with her manicured nails. He takes a measured breath and relaxes his iron control, opening a door in his mind palace where the dust lies thick on the threshold. A frisson tingles down his spine. Nerves fire. Chemicals flood his limbic system. He imagines that he can see his pupils dilating, almost immeasurably. With very little concentration, he can feel the pulse of his heart. He touches two fingers to her wrist to feel the pulse of hers. Her lips part. His blood stirs.

"If I go back," he says abruptly. "When I go back. I can't go to him this way. Not...knowing. Naive. It wouldn't be...fair. To him. If there were to be more between us. If that's even something he would want - you know how these details elude me."

"Ah," she says, light and amused. "Of course."

"I need you," he says.

"Oh, yes," she tells him. "More than you know."

"You're The Woman in my life," he says after a moment, while he watches her trace the lines on his palm over and over. His skin feels warmer; he strains a little to anticipate her touch, half-hypnotized by the gleam of the light on her fingers. 

"Quite an honor," she says.

"Irene," he says. "If it could have been otherwise between us...."

"Don't," she says quickly. "Don't woo me with hypotheticals. I knew every moment that you were a bad decision."

"And I knew you were a good one," he says.

She lets out a breath and curls her fingers around his. She lifts his hand to her lips and kisses his knuckles, her mouth slow and warm and sensual. This time there's definitely a frisson. He shifts in his chair and looks into her shining eyes and thinks of chemical formulae: C19H28O2, C20H24O2, C43H66N12O12S2, C8H11N . He thinks of genetics, of partial dominance, of the mechanics of attraction, often studied, never practiced. He thinks of the ease with which she nearly betrayed him. She is a foe to respect and to cherish. He thinks of the thrill behind the triumph when he unraveled her scheme, and the trembling of her body as he stepped close to make his point. He listens to his body as it listens to her body. It speaks without his knowing in smoke signal breaths of pheromones and angles of reflection, holding a strange new heat between them. 

"You tell such pretty lies," she says, holding his fingers to her cheek. "But don't think I didn't know that falling in love with you would be the death of me." 

"And here we are," he says. "In our state of tentative grace. Whether we are ghosts or angels remains to be seen."

She kisses his fingers once more and releases his hand. "Come on," she says. "A rare thing, grace. A moment to take advantage of. And what a man to take advantage of."

"It isn't only for John that I've come," he tells her. It's the only thing he can say, a paltry few words to represent the upheaval in his life. For once, he's at a loss for words.

"I know," she says, leaning in to kiss just the corner of his mouth. His face tingles. His vascular system is responding: blood flushes his face and suddenly he can feel his pulse beating all through his body, in places he rarely considers. He gazes at her again. Her beauty seems to have a new dimension, something subjective and strangely poignant. The closer she gets, the lovelier she becomes. Somehow, in this moment, she is everything, and he can see in her eyes that she knows it.

He takes a deep breath. All he can smell is her perfume. She is waiting, expectant. She knows better than he does the question on the tip of his tongue, but she will not make things simple for him. That was never her way. He likes the way her gaze pins him down, and it terrifies him too. She will not set him free. She has waited a long time for this. He flattens his hand on the edge of the table. The veins and tendons stand out above the bones. Metacarpals, carpals, phalanges. Some Lovers Try Positions They Cannot Handle. A mnemonic he used but never dissected. She touches his hand very gently and he exhales a dissipating puff of carbon dioxide and nervous terror.

"Will you have me?" he asks.

"I can't remember wanting anything more," she says lightly. 

Sherlock's fingers tremble just a little as he selects the proper denomination of bills from his wallet to pay for the meal.


	4. Chapter 4

Her flat isn't large, but it's airy and well-decorated. Sherlock idly appraises her furniture: pricey. Antiques. The understated elegance of old money. Irene notices nearly as much as he does. The difference between them is that she gives a damn about fitting in. He might envy that, if he were the type. Her focus and her practical application of her insights are impressive; her eye for the sort of detail that can upset a nation is unfortunately excellent.

"Well," she says, dropping her wrap over the chaise longue with practiced grace. "Here we are."

"I'm afraid you'll have to tell me what to do," he says, tall and strange and out of place. He has always been loose-limbed, gangly and awkward. Not since his teenage years has he felt it so keenly.

"Oh, Sherlock," she says, standing on tiptoe in her high heels to brush her lips across his cheek. "It was never going to be any other way." 

She takes his coat and lays it over hers, a startlingly intimate gesture which reminds him of what is to come. He is sure it was purposeful from the little caress she gave the fabric and the look she shot him from under her lashes. He stands in the middle of her bedroom as she goes around lighting candles. Every move she makes is perfect. He suspects that if he were another man, she would have the heart out of him already. 

"You could bring an empire to its knees," he says.

She looks at him over her shoulder with an amused little smile. "I have my sights set on much smaller game tonight, although, at a second thought, hardly less impressive."

"You flatter me," he murmurs.

"Darling, I shall flatten you," she promises. "But with the greatest of care."

"I trust you," he says, thought it makes his mouth dry to say it.

She pauses, gazing at him with an unintelligible light in her eyes. "Thank you," she says, and the sincerity of it is bone-deep. 

She undresses him with careful, precise fingers, marveling over each new inch of flesh. He is a little puzzled by that, and a little flattered, and just a touch comforted. He has never much cared for his body. It is strange that she does. He has seen her unclothed before, of course. It's a much different thing to undress her. He manages to ease down the zip and she takes his hand to steady herself as she steps out of her dress. At least they are equally vulnerable now, or at least as equal can be considering how comfortable she is in her skin and how uncomfortable he is outside the labyrinth of his mind. Previous experience has not prepared him for The Woman. He does not, he thinks, suffer quite the reaction John would, but the effect of her is still fairly strong. He can't help trying to analyse where it comes from and how it works on him. 

"Sherlock," she says, unfastening her bra and dropping it carelessly, "the first thing you'll need to do is turn down that positively massive intellect. I can nearly hear you thinking at me."

"It's...difficult," he says. "Generally it's simple enough to find a diversion, but this...." He trails off. "It requires attention."

"That's what makes it worthwhile," she tells him. "You of all people ought to know. The effort of it all. The thrill of the chase."

"I don't generally enjoy being the prey," he says, standing fairly still as she deftly strips him down to his skin. He feels as if he is losing more layers than that, as if she has discovered some new essential concept of nudity that bares his soul to her questing hands.

"I promise you," she breathes into his ear, "this time, you will." She reaches up to cup one hand behind his head, her nails lightly scraping his neck. She draws his head down to her shoulder and kisses his temple. 

"Don't think," she says. "Feel. Live. Be human, Sherlock. Be with me. Otherwise there was no point in living or dying."

"You smell the same," he says pointlessly, rubbing the tip of his nose along her collarbones. "That stayed behind when you left. I tried every scented product in the flat, I distilled and decanted for days. Seventy-five natural perfumes and hundreds of synthetic scents, and the whole time, it was you. I destroyed John's collection of idiotic bath products."

"I figured yours was the plain soap," she says. "Separate steps for all the bits of you didn't seem very Sherlock Holmes. Too much energy that could be used elsewhere."

"I tried them once," he says. The arch of his cheekbone feels good against the round bone of her shoulder. "It was too fussy, and too many smells all at once, and I still couldn't get your scent out of my nose."

"The French have a word for that," she says, preening against him. "La cassolette."

"The way a woman's perfume rises from her skin, mingling with the scent of her body and her hair," he murmurs. "It would be the French."

"You couldn't recreate me in a lab," she says in gentle amused reproof, running her hands through his hair. He looks up at her.

"Isn't it enough that I tried?"

"Yes, you're very sweet," she says, splaying her hands over his chest. He's surprised by how much he's begun to enjoy her touch. He cups his hands over hers. "When I think of you living in this body all your life and never really knowing what it could do, I get a bit sad."

"I keep fit," he objects.

"It does more than fighting and eating and sleeping and carrying your lovely big brains around," she says. "There's rapture and glory you've never dreamed of."

"Such as what?" he mutters.

"Such as this," she says, and kisses him. The whole world goes still around them. 

\+ + + +

Sherlock has not been touched with care in a very long time. The only caress he remembers in recent years is the slide of knuckles past his face as he dodged, not a reassurance (and John's fist connecting, but somehow, that _was_ a reassurance). He has never in his life been touched like this. A few girls and boys tried to corner him for a pash in the upper forms and in college and university and one or two succeeded, but it was never like this. One pair of lips against another should not be so incendiary; he thinks of gestalt theory, the whole more than the sum of its parts. Irene kisses him and light jolts through his body, linking every part of him like a constellation, sigils drawn on the void between stars to make sense of the brilliance and the awe of it. Her lips tell him every love story; her hand firm on his back keeps him anchored in the world as his head spins. His own hands rise of their own accord to cup her face.

"Ah," he says when she draws away. 

She kicks off her shoes and stands there with her bare toes touching his. She has to look up at him. It's charming. He's certain she knows that, but it's charming all the same. He raises his hand to her hair, gently working out the pins that hold her curls in place. Her hair slides through his fingers, silky and sweet-smelling. He begins to catalogue the scents and textures of her and then forces his mind back to stillness and the moment. She stands patiently under his tentative caresses. She is taming him, he thinks. She is teaching him her secrets, the way that a clever mind can adapt to a world unencumbered by cleverness. He is suddenly and absurdly grateful to her. He suspects she can see it in his eyes. He knows she can read the evidence of his body: any half-blind fool could see that, and she's close enough to feel it. The shock every time his arousal brushes her skin is nearly enough to unnerve him.

"Irene," he says, his voice raspier than he expects.

"Sherlock," she says, her eyes intent on his. "You can still run."

"Please," he says. She takes his hand, slowly lacing her fingers between his. He lets her lead him to the bed. They lay side by side in her silky sheets, hands roaming where they will, their kisses soft and sweet as the candlelight that lights the room, and like the candlelight, just as likely to blaze up, given sufficient fuel. This must be desire, this heat licking around the limits of his body the way flame lazily caresses the edge of a paper before sending it up in a plume of ash. Oh, he thinks. It's no wonder any more, why people do the things they do. An ancient mystery solved, another case closed.

He files it away as snippets of memory: the curve of her waist under his hand, the scrape of her nails down his back, the weight of her breasts against him, the sudden heat of her surrounding him. He makes a new room in his mind palace just for her. He wants to be able to come back to the hush of this, the tumble of her hair around his face and the hitch of his breathing as she moves. She makes incredible noises, noises that illuminate the jagged pathways of his nervous system. She makes a new map of his skin. She teaches him things he never knew about the body he's lived in, the body he's pushed and punished but never really explored. She shows him where to put his hands, his mouth; she demonstrates how his body should move against hers. 

He thinks she will draw music out of him the way his bow coaxes the pure full sounds from the strings of his violin. His body is astounding and her body even more so. He waits for a rest or a pause or the inevitable disappointment he has always found in his interactions, but it is crescendo and crescendo and crescendo until he sees the music, the notes picked out in stars. He sees the Van Buren Supernova, an impossible almighty crash of light. A shock of lightning draws new connections between half-formed ideas. He gasps and his body jerks. Irene holds him tightly, crooning to him. He pants in her arms, trembling, his soul nearly detached from his body and floating free.

"That was...indescribable," he says, when he can speak again. He doesn't seem to quite fit in the confines of his body any more. Surely that will pass as his metabolism settles back to its ground state. He wouldn't want to wake up in the morning a changed man, unaware of his own dimensions.

She laughs and that's music too. "You'll need a new nickname," she says. "The Virgin won't play anymore."

"I hope it was pleasurable," he says, frowning. "The power dynamics are certainly worth investigating. You seemed to enjoy it, but I don't have enough data to judge my performance. This sort of thing ought to be an even exchange."

She cuddles closer to him. "Not bad for a first-timer, and you'll have plenty of time to redeem any shortcomings. I'll make a lover out of you yet, Sherlock Holmes."

He kisses her deeply.


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes up in the morning sprawled across her massive bed with the duvet twisted around him. Irene is gone. He touches her pillow. The fabric is cool and the stuffing within bears no impression from the weight of her head. She left some time ago, then, nearly an hour at the inside. For a moment, he goes cold, imagining that she has betrayed him again, but then he hears the clinking of cups in the other room. She walks in a moment later, very quiet on her bare feet with her hair damp around her shoulders and two steaming cups in her hands. He looks her over: no weapons concealed under her silky dressing gown. The worst she could do would be to drug or poison him. He doubts she'll be doing that this morning. If she hadn't wanted him to wake up this morning, he wouldn't be here admiring the way the light caresses her skin and her hair and the gleaming fabric of her dressing gown. She looks like a lost Vermeer herself.

"Good morning," she says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I haven't found decent tea in months, but I do a drinkable cappuccino." She offers him one of the cups. He disentangles himself from the duvet enough to slide up and take it. 

"Thank you," he says, after he's scalded the morning fuzz out of his mouth by way of three-quarters of his frothy coffee. He licks foam from his upper lip and considers the way he still feels a bit as if his skin is too small to hold in all of him. Expansive. Effusive. He finds he is leaning slightly toward Irene without meaning to.

"You're welcome," she says, a glint in her eyes. She sips at her cappuccino and studies him.

He has heard that people say something, in situations like this. The Morning After, with capital letters. He is certain she needs no reassurances, but at the least, she will enjoy the spectacle of him attempting to imitate the ordinary spectrum of human behavior. 

"Last night was..." Sherlock begins and then pauses a moment to think it through again. Delicate phrasing has not always been a strength of his. "A learning experience."

"You were an avid pupil," she says. "I've heard worse things, after."

"It was excellent," he assures her. "I...it's difficult to describe it."

"Sherlock Holmes, at a loss for words," she says, her lips curving into a smile above the rim of her cup. "Now that's a rare compliment."

"I might be inclined to pursue further opportunities for research," he offers. "To clarify my position. I have a few more questions."

"Why, Mister Holmes, are you propositioning me?" she asks, amused. "I am frankly shocked. Then again, it might be to my advantage to take advantage of your morning...situation."

He looks down the length of his body to the tent in the duvet. "Yes. Well. That's perfectly normal, I suppose."

"Yes," she says, taking the cup from him and setting it with hers on the nightstand. "Inevitable, even." She leans in to kiss him, bracing herself with a hand on his chest, her palm cupped warm over his heart. 

"This is all much more pleasant than I expected it would be," he tells her after the lingering kiss. His fingers are woven through her hair. He's not quite sure when that happened; his mind is awash with a glorious chemical fog. The pressure of her lips seems to hypnotize him. He's glad of it, though. Otherwise, with all his faculties intact, all of this would be nearly impossible. One night does not undo the habits of an ascetic and solitary life, even if one touch from her last night unraveled him completely. 

"What did you expect?" she asks.

"I did try to be ordinary once or twice, you know," he says. "Most adolescents do. A kiss here, a touch there. But it wasn't..." he searches for the word. "Luminous."

"I see," she says. "And last night was luminous, was it?"

"Positively incandescent," he tells her and leans forward for a kiss. It might hurt his back if he were paying attention to trivialities like the curvature of his spine against the solid wood of her headboard. Obviously, he isn't concerned with that at this moment. 

"You do have your own way with words," she says with a little sigh. 

"I want you to teach me to please you," he says, letting the words tumble out before he thinks the better of it. She is right: about this, he thinks too much. He must collect data now with lips and hands and sensitive skin and analyze it later, outside of the heat of the moment. He is determined not to be rubbish at this, now that he has begun, even if he never engages in the act with any other person, which seems a possibility. He will not go looking elsewhere, if it is not after all a possibility with John. 

"I'd be delighted," she says, her eyes laughing at him. He reaches out to cup his hand around the back of her neck to pull her close again and she stills at his touch. _Oh._ He had an inkling he had some sort of power over Molly; he did not know he could have any sort of influence over Irene, who seems an irresistible force. 

He has always assumed that passion is a state that people bring upon themselves, something which they create in order to surrender to it. A construct. An excuse for those who do not understand their own minds. Yet here he is, in the bed of a woman for whom passion has been a profession, and who still seems half-mesmerized by the gentle caress of his fingertips at the nape of her neck. Here he is, tamed into relative humanity by the smooth warmth of her skin, brought down from his pure cold beautiful logic to this mortal world of fumbling and moaning and somehow he is enjoying it, even the way the sweat and wet of them bridged the last small distance between their bodies last night as they moved frantically against each other, reaching for that brilliant oblivion. She was amazing. They were amazing together. And he was overtaken.

He wants to make that happen again. This time he will concentrate on the experience. It seems as if it should be all wrong. He hasn't even showered or cleaned his teeth and he's certain there's more than a whiff of sweat about him even though he tried to wipe himself down last night before they fell into the embrace of the bed, but she's telling him it's all right. He believes her, somehow. 

"Tell me," he urges her, and she pushes gently down on his head. He slides further under the covers, further under her, and she kneels over him, her dressing gown making a tent. 

"Stroke my thighs," she orders him and he complies. Her skin is pale and warm; he finds the stray freckle and the single varicella scar unaccountably charming. He drags his fingertips over the smooth muscle until her skin comes up gooseflesh. She sighs in apparent bliss. 

"And?" he asks. 

"You're doing fine," she says. "But if you like, you may touch me."

"Where?" he asks, an absurd question with her knees bracketing his shoulders and every pertinent bit of her in full view.

She gazes down at him in fond amusement. "Everywhere, in general. In particular? Surely you've seen a diagram once or twice. You can't have missed every detail last night."

"I would appreciate specifics," he tells her. "I haven't yet raised seduction to an art." 

"Kiss the inside of my thigh," she says. "Slowly. Use your tongue. Use your teeth. Ah, just like that."

He hums his contentedness against her skin. She tastes faintly of soap and of salt. She shifts minutely and he takes the hint, pushing another pillow under his head so that he can work his way up the slope of her thigh, pushing back the fabric of her dressing gown. He tastes the crease where her thigh meets her hip and nuzzles his way across the few manicured curls that decorate her pubis, enjoying the texture against his cheek. This close, the clinical terms seem too cold for the warmth of her, too divorced from the glorious reality of her. He presses his face against the swell of her as he explores her folds with the tips of his fingers. From the way she swallows a moan, he must have some effect. She is very wet, and not simply from her bath. The moisture he finds is all natural, slick and hot, and he has to suppress a sudden urge to plunge his fingers into her over and over until she shakes apart above him. Instead he slides his fingers along the cleft of her until he finds the knot of nerves that makes her knees tremble and clutch around his shoulders.

"You have seen a diagram, then," she chokes out.

He answers by touching his tongue to the place. That certainly produces a splendid effect. Her back arches, canting her hips to a lovely angle. He wraps one arm around the back of her thigh and pulls her closer, his hand sliding easily between her legs from the other side, now. He presses his face more firmly against her as she shivers and draws small circles with his tongue. It is easy to let his tongue follow his fingers, up and down between her folds, tasting the salt tang of her and cataloguing each texture and feature: here smooth, here rougher, here electric-hot. 

He finds he wants to touch himself as she moans and shivers. Instead he lets his other hand rise to cup her breasts and flick at her nipples. They really are magnificent, her breasts, especially when he considers her with this new part of his brain rather than comparing her to the anatomical diagrams papering several rooms of his mind palace. Every inch of her is incredible. He plays her by ear, trusting her to guide him. Lips and teeth and tongue and hands: tools he barely knew he owned, before, and the rest of his body holds the same potential. His erection twitches, pinioned under the duvet. She moans louder and louder and his tongue moves faster, keeping time, and then she goes stiff and still and suddenly loose with a noise of deep satisfaction. 

He can feel something curious happening inside her. He wants to experience that too, lest his data be incomplete. He tries pushing into her with his tongue first, which brings sounds out of her that thrill him from crown to sole. But he likes the way she nearly jumps when his tongue is on her clitoris, so he slips his fingers inside her instead. Her muscles clutch around him, a swift fluttering spasm. There are textures there too, rough places for him to rub with his fingertips. She almost sounds as if she is in pain, but when he slows, she urges him on, and all at once he wants to break her apart with pleasure. He wants her bones to rattle the way his did; he wants to make this a memorable occasion in a life full of quotidian pleasures. 

His mouth and hands move of their own accord - it seems his body knows this, somehow, and it's more than his conscious mind driving him on, driving his fingers into her over and over until she sounds as if she will choke on her moans. It is as if the noises she makes are driving him mad. He wants, he _wants_ , he wants to be inside her, or at least to take himself in hand, but he is tending to her needs, redirecting all that energy back into her body. He licks frantically at the slick heat of her, filling his mouth with her, sucking and swirling as his fingers thrust and thrust and his other hand cups her breast all at once she stiffens again as if someone has pulled her whole body into one taut curve and she tilts back her head and shrieks. She folds her arms against the headboard, resting her forehead on them and muttering his name as she gasps, and he holds her tightly to feel her body shaking. Her muscles hold him as if they will not let him go and he relishes the possessiveness of her body and his possession of it for a long moment. When her shaking slows, he slides his fingers out, feeling a little pang of loss. 

She slides slowly down until she is sitting on his belly, making a wet spot there. He wipes his mouth with a hand that shakes. His cheeks are slick too. This is, somehow, very deeply satisfying. She collapses forward onto his chest, her heart thudding against his and her skin against his where her dressing gown has pulled open. 

"I take it that interesting phenomenon was a multiple orgasm?" he asks, gently brushing her hair away from her face with the hand that wasn't between her legs.

She laughs, still catching her breath. Her skins glows with a lovely flush. Her eyes look even brighter than usual. "Only you, Sherlock. Yes, well done." 

"I wasn't to know," he reminds her, and she kisses him. 

"You're a very quick study," she murmurs, easing herself down his body and flipping back the duvet. "It's time to return the favor. Pay attention if you can - I can promise that if anything of the sort happens with John, you'll want to know how to do this."

"Surely it's not," he begins, but forgets what he was saying as she takes his erection firmly in hand and her mouth descends over him. 

This time it isn't like music at all: it's a wave of pleasure crashing over him, submerging him completely. He groans as she pins his hips. There's never been anything like this in the history of the world. His blood thunders like surf in his ears; he wants to crash against her shores. He has the salt of her in his mouth still. He fists his hands in the duvet because he does not want to pull her hair and risk her moving but he absolutely has to hold onto something. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing he has ever seen as her red lips caress him and her tongue flickers and swirls around him and her hair falls over his thighs. She watches him sink deeper and deeper into pleasure, a deliciously wicked glint in her eye. He makes noises he never thought he was capable of producing. Despite her weight on his thighs he tries to thrust up into her mouth. She digs her nails lightly into his skin but that only makes it all better somehow. _More._ Hotter, faster, tighter, deeper: he feels the blood drain from the rest of his body like the pull of the water before the storm surge, and then the wave takes him, smashing through his frantic thoughts. 

In an embarrassingly short amount of time it is over. He lies flat on the bed, gasping and spent, half-drowned in ecstasy, washed up on the shores of his normal life like the wrack of seaweed and drift the tide leaves. The waters of his mind ruffle and smooth, only a small current visible to show the sea change in him. Irene licks her lips and twists her hair out of the way. 

"Now don't you think he'd like that?" she asks.

"I don't see how anyone could help it," he says, barely able to string the words together. "Despite the terrifying intimacy of it all. I mean, your _mouth_." 

"We'll continue your lessons later," she says. "Go and wash up. There will be breakfast in a bit."

"Sorry it was quick," he says, blinking. There are patterns on her ceiling, bas-relief swirls and embossing. He hadn't noticed, last night.

"Darling Sherlock," she says, "I'm amazed you had any stamina at all, given the way I teased you. Believe me, I've had worse. You'll be stronger later, and it doesn't matter nearly as much when it's that particular variation." She winks. "One's jaw does begin to ache after a while."

"I'll bear that in mind," he murmurs.

She picks up the crop from her vanity and flicks it gently at him. "Get up. Wash up. Eat up. Swot up."

"Excellent," he says, rolling his eyes and hauling himself out of bed with an effort. "Seduced by an aspiring poet. Save your mouth for higher purposes, love."

She gives him a good whack for that one. Oddly enough, the welt feels like a badge of honor.


	6. Chapter 6

It is easy to stay with her. It feels good. He had thought it would be more difficult, but it's no harder than slipping into any other character. He has had a great many disguises over the years. At least this one is more a shift than a lie. She has taught him a great deal more than he thought he would ever learn about a great many things; at least, after all that, he feels better equipped to examine the ties that bind people to each other, which may help his work. His accent is improving day by day - he's learned not to lisp asking for his cafecito - and he has made a survey of the best bakeries in walking distance, in addition to cataloguing all of her neighbors and mapping the best escape routes. He is still out hunting, touring the world's dark places, and she is still recreating herself, but to come back to her flat from time to time and to feel her arms around him is nice. It's human. He's not used to that being pleasant. He's always preferred the rarefied air of pure logic. 

John did this to him, he thinks, made the way in that Irene came through, and just for a moment, he is swallowed up in longing for Baker Street and the particular way the rain would patter at the window of 221B. He allows himself to admit that he misses Mrs. Hudson's shrieks at finding cadaverous bits in the refrigerator. He tries not to think about John in the flat alone, if John has even stayed. He searches for the way to Moran and does his best to ignore that that's the key to going home, that his yearning is for more than just the solution, the purity of the puzzle.

"As delighted as I would be if you would stay forever," Irene says casually one day, "I don't think you would feel the same way."

"I might," he says in his grumpy voice. 

"You wouldn't," she says, leaning against the counter where he's breaking a cipher just for the mental exercise. "You're like a shark. If you stop investigating, you'll die."

"Sharks don't investigate anything beyond chum, as far as I know," he tells her. "But it's always good to have your wisdom to add to my own. If I have anymore ichthyotic questions, I'll be sure to approach you first."

She punishes him with a kiss. He smiles.

It is a peculiar, intermittent domesticity: each of them comes and goes as they please. They never spend more than a week together. He doesn't have a key to her flat, but she never turns him out or minds him breaking in. He sleeps in her bed or on the chaise as the mood takes him. He suspects that he loves her, and that she loves him, but they are ruthless at heart. Each could survive without the other. After Sherlock thinks this, he always thinks of John. John is different. John is human, and all that goes with what is called humanity. A military man who cares deeply for his troubled sister. A romantic. A dutiful son. John is faithful down to his bones. Sherlock wonders what that feels like, to be so grounded: security or imprisonment? He has always avoiding entanglement. But that was his old life. He has the chance to start anew, in some ways. He is already bound up, in this half-existence, in a great web of lies and crime and also in the arms of a woman who makes an art of entanglement.

The two of them are curled under her duvet one night. He's weary and windburned, but he's closer to satisfying his urge for vengeance than he's been in an age. The work is paying off. He has files on around seventy percent of Moriarty's operations now. Even Moran is nearly in reach. Sherlock sighs in contentment as Irene rubs his back. They've lit a fire against the damp and cold; in England, it's high summer. Despite everything, happiness simmers in his veins to be near her, safe together for now. The realization of it makes him think inevitably of how quickly things can change: silver-lined clouds are more likely to conduct the lightning.

"I'll leave one day," he tells her, his face pressed into the pillow.

"I know," she says, her gaze steady.

"I don't love you," he says. 

"Liar," she says comfortably.

He scowls to hide his smile. "Perhaps."

"I know that too," she says. "You might as well go now. I won't miss you."

"Speaking of liars, you have at least seven obvious tells," he points out.

"All right, I might," she says with just a touch of scorn. "No need to be smug about it. But Sherlock Holmes must be redeemed. What a resurrection it will be. I almost wish I could be there to see it."

"I could bring you back," he says.

"How terribly neocolonial of you, to play the hero who sallies forth to parts unknown and returns with a souvenir with lovely eyes and a dark past," she says, reaching up to stroke his face. "Is this some penny dreadful and I never knew? Are you going to marry me and carry me back to your haunted manor?"

"It wouldn't be like that," he says. "You're acting illogical."

"Oh dear," she says, widening her eyes mockingly. "A palpable hit, I'm sure."

"You would be safer..." he begins.

"I'm not the type to sit around collecting dust in your flat," she interrupts him, "and besides, John isn't very fond of me."

"He could manage," Sherlock says, irritated at her irrational refusals. "He got used to the skull."

After all this time, she shouldn't really be startled when he says things like that, but there's still a touch of disbelief in her eyes. "Ah, yes, the skull. It's so lovely to be with a man who really knows how to turn a compliment."

He ignores her amusement. "I'd prefer to have you somewhere I can watch."

"You're _watching_ now?" she asks, mockery and delight mingling in her voice. He lets the innuendo pass unheeded. She would fiddle while Rome burned. "Unsuspected depths. We have technology now, Sherlock. You can bug me if you like. I might even leave it up. See, that's love."

"I'd rather not be dragged back in to identify your corpse," he tells her, hoping she understands a little of the deep and aching feeling that motivates this line of inquiry, even if he cannot put a proper straightforward voice to it. "It was unpleasant enough the first time. And there were...questions." He traces the line of her throat with one fingertip, all the way down to the lace of her camisole.

Irene smiles. "You're a real boy now. You've got a heart and everything, poor lad."

He closes his eyes and turns his face to kiss her palm. Salt, lemon hand soap, her favorite lotion scented with amber and musk, the familiar scent of her skin under it all. The ring on her finger has been cleaned since the last time he was here. 

"I'm perfectly able to defend myself, Sherlock," she says. "You thought you were clever, hiding my sleeping potions, but they're not the only weapon around."

"Three pistols, an assortment of whips and chains and unmentionable contraptions, at least two functional pairs of handcuffs and one pair of questionable use, several sets of other bindings, a swordstick, a set of very sharp kitchen knives, a solid basic knowledge of unarmed self-defense, and a vivid imagination," he says immediately. "And possibly the shoes - those heels could do plenty of damage to soft tissue. Plus the drugs, which I didn't care to experience again."

"We had better things to do," she tells him. "I won't pine away without you, unlike some I could name, and I won't be taken by surprise."

"Send me a message if you need me," he says. The ache he feels at the thought of her in trouble startles him; there's a touch of protective anger there too. He turns over to face her. "I'll come if I can."

"I won't need you," she says. 

"I'll come anyway."

"Unless inconvenient," she says. "And then you'll be off again, man of mysteries."

"You wouldn't want me to stay."

"Lord, no," she agrees. "I'd hurt you if you treated my things the way you treat John's or walked all over my furniture. I can hardly stand having you here right now." She belies her words with a caress. He loops one arm around her and she presses up against him.

"I don't like this," he says.

"You don't have to," she tells him. "Making choices like this is what adult people do. Come on, Sherlock. London's not the same without its consulting detective."

"No," he agrees. 

For a long time there is only the sound of the fire crackling and the wind moaning under the eaves.

"Who will you be, when you go back?" she asks, stretching luxuriously and shifting the covers.

"Myself," he says.

"Will you?" she asks, raising one eyebrow in skeptical amusement. "After all of this?"

"I haven't changed," he says, irritated. 

"You have," she says. "Much easier to get into bed now, for one."

"That's different." 

"Not much," she says thoughtfully. "Not everyone gets a second chance at life. You've been a great man. I wonder if you can be a good one."

"Goodness is the construct of a moralistic society more concerned with tenderness than with truth," he tells her. "There's no place for goodness in justice."

"The world's only philosophizing detective," she says. "But the question stands, Mister Holmes: in a world of criminals, are you a good man?"

"I'm on the side of justice."

"I didn't ask whether you were a just man. I asked whether you were a good one," she reminds him.

"Does it matter?" he asks. "If justice is served, does it matter whether I personally conform to someone else's ideal?"

"Does it?" she echoes. 

"When the law is upheld, that's good enough," he tells her.

"Arguably," she says. "If the law is a good one. What if it's not?" 

"The ends may justify the means," he says.

"And how many Moriartys have said that, I wonder."

"You cut to the bone," he says after a moment.

"I've had a great deal of practice," she says. "And aren't you glad? I won't need a gallant defender."

"It has nothing to do with gallantry," he argues. "That's even worse than goodness."

"You don't give a damn about goodness and you don't give a damn about justice either," she snaps back. "You never did. All you care for is the puzzle. You're a junkie, darling. You're hooked on the mystery."

A thousand retorts run through his mind, but not one of them suits his purpose, so he says nothing. She continues, stroking his back to soften her words. "Everything in the name of the mystery, when sometimes it would have been kinder to keep shtum. How many people's days have you ruined with a casual assessment of their troubles? How many people's lives have you overturned with a deduction? We don't all live on your cold rational higher plane."

"I have a few credits to my name," he says. "I'm not a monster."

"You're not," she says. "But there are days you're not quite human either."

"Come with me, then," he tells her. "Teach me all the human stuff. It'll seem less pointless if it comes from you."

"I couldn't possibly," she says. "I don't aspire to be good. I delight in mischief, in case you hadn't noticed with all your acutely advanced powers of observation."

"I don't ask these things lightly," he says quietly.

"Sherlock," she says, covering his mouth with her hand. "It was lovely. It will utterly break my heart to see the back of you. But I'd rather we not make each other miserable, and I'd rather not be beholden to you for the rest of my days, any more than I already am." 

"Please," he says. The word leaves an empty space behind it, as if he has had to drag it out of some deep place inside himself and nothing can fill the gap it left. 

Her mouth quirks into something between amusement and sorrow. "I said I'd make you beg, darling. I didn't say I'd give you what you wanted."

"Please," he says again. Another effort, another echoing hollow inside him, tiny but palpable.

"You'll never be rid of me," she says. "I'll be in your bones, Sherlock Holmes. I just won't be in your sight for a while."

He cares about so few people. The ones he does cherish he likes to have around him. She will not come. He does not know what others do in these situations. He thinks there is weeping, generally. He does not weep. He draws her to him, eyes dry, and tries to convince her with his lips and hands and every skill she's taught him, but she is resolute, though she accepts his caresses and after a moment, returns them. The steel in her is one thing he loves about her, which makes it all the more frustrating. 

He leaves the next morning with only his coat, the memory of her kiss, and a few trinkets he couldn't resist. It isn't as if she wore the ring in his trouser pocket. It was much too plain for her, he thinks. He could never find his scarf. No matter. He won't need it in London. She is welcome to wrap it around her lovely neck, or draw it over her smooth bare skin.

He discovers a note in his coat pocket as he slouches in his narrow airplane seat. Bohemian stationery. Only the best for her, of course. He rubs his thumb over the thick luxurious paper the way he cannot rub his thumb over the arch of her cheekbone. "Thank you for my life," it says in neat feminine handwriting. "Now go live yours. xxx"


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock lurks outside of 221B. Casing the joint, as Lestrade would say, though his purposes are benign. The neighborhood seems to be relatively free of assassins and miscellaneous criminals. He has tried to be cautious in his investigations, but if the rumor of the revenant Sherlock Holmes has reached Moran, the man isn't concerned enough to stock the place with thugs on a regular basis. Sherlock would have found that insulting, before. Now it's almost a comfort.

It occurs to him once during his wait that perhaps John has gone. Perhaps the flat was too lonely or too haunted. But then there is a movement at the window and the profile is as familiar as his own name. Sherlock's hands clench as he pretends to nap on the alleyway under the shelter of his coat, which is much too warm for such a day. 

He waits until John and Mrs. Hudson are both out, one gone to the hospital and one to the tea shop, and then he breaks in, laying his coat carefully over the sofa. They haven't even changed the locks, which was frankly just stupid. They ought to have known better. They're not so thick that they didn't pick up a little deviousness. He manages to mostly ignore the fact that he's very slightly touched that they wanted him home so much they didn't take common precautions. John's laptop is no harder to break into than the flat. All that's changed is a few new additions to John's collection of nudes, which Sherlock peruses with mild interest. They do nothing in particular for him; Irene, after all, is singular, and so is John. There isn't anyone else worth sacrificing the peace and purity of his mind for. If he had not had to abandon his old life, he is not sure he would have ever made that choice. He does not regret it. There is no point in expending the energy.

There is a light layer of dust on many of the things in the flat. Sherlock prowls the rooms. John has not been a diligent housekeeper. It can't even be that he has a girlfriend. The sink is littered with bristly hairs from this morning's shave and John's sheets haven't been washed for at least two weeks. When he's dating, he always has clean sheets, even if the women never stay over. His least attractive underwear is still in active rotation; all the boxers at the top of the drawer have thin places or outright holes and loud comical patterns. He has recently accessed the folders on his computer that he thinks are secret. Sherlock shakes his head as he examines John's nail scissors and the stock of bath products. There's no subtlety in this world anymore.

Sherlock's own room is much the same as he left it: narrow bed, periodic table, all his clothes hung up facing the same way in the wardrobe. The place is at once too small and just the right size, just like the confines of his mind. A hint of Irene's perfume lingers in the air - well, then, they were right all along and it is his mind she has scented and not his things. Nothing lasts that long. Mrs. Hudson has been in here dusting fairly regularly, if not as frequently in the rest of the flat. Fussing over him from beyond the grave. He smiles to himself. He will be glad to see her. She's never asked for more than he could give. He is just her uncanny surrogate child, all his strange ways forgiven. 

The key turns in the door and John comes in, his step as weary as Sherlock's ever heard it. He hears the quick sniff as John senses his presence and the click as the gun cocks, and then he steps into the living room. 

"Mrs. Hudson won't take kindly to it if you put another hole in her wall," he says. "Especially if there are bits of me in it."

" _Sherlock_ ," John says, as if every bit of strength he has is in the word. The pistol stays steady.

"It's me," Sherlock reassures him.

"You're a prat," John says steadily. "You are...the world's biggest, utter, number one prat, and your hair is complete shit."

"It's all right," Sherlock says quietly. 

" _Where have you been_ ," John says, and it isn't even really a question. He is breathing harder than Sherlock would like.

"I've been around," Sherlock tells him. "Here and there and everywhere. I've been on the trail, John, hunting very big game."

"A year," John says, and he still hasn't put the gun away. "For the first three months, I was certain you'd find a way out of it. Sherlock Holmes, cheating death. If anyone could, you could. God, I wanted you to be that clever. You cheated your way out of everything else, so why not? For the next six months, I hoped you'd turn up in some sort of miracle." The last word comes out of him rough and breathy, his voice almost breaking. Sherlock waits as John steadies himself. The gun never wavers. "But the last three months, I've been coping. You were gone. You were never coming back. Life went on and hope didn't. And now here you are. Just like that. Just like nothing ever happened. Like if only I'd looked hard enough, I would have seen you'd been in the airing cupboard the whole time with the spare linens."

"I'm sure your therapist appreciated the business," Sherlock says, rearranging a few things on the desk. "You haven't been updating your blog enough to please her."

"Nothing to say," John tells him. 

"Yes, I imagine you said it all after the funeral," Sherlock says. "You spent quite a bit of time lingering in front of my grave."

"You bastard," John says softly. 

"It wasn't safe," Sherlock tells him. John is too angry to understand now and they both know it, but still he wants to explain, to lay out the trail for John to follow as he has so often done in the past. "It would have meant death for all of us. You know that." 

"You could have sent me a message," John says. "Homeless network. Anonymous email. Skywriting. A fortune cookie in my takeaway. Carrier pigeon. Disposable phone. Anything to let us know that we hadn't actually had our hearts ripped out. Anything to let us know you were okay."

"I wasn't," Sherlock says. 

"You weren't what?" John asks impatiently. "Near a phone? Or a computer? I find that difficult to believe. Surely somewhere in the world there was a letterbox, even if there wasn't phone service. Or a damn telegraph machine, if it came to that."

"I wasn't okay, as you so succinctly put it," Sherlock says. "And you wouldn't have been either. I had to really appear to die, so the world could forget for a while. I needed space and time to work. He would have taken you by now if I hadn't gone."

"Who?" John demands. "Moriarty?"

"Moriarty is dead," Sherlock tells him. "He shot himself in front of me. Losing that amount of blood and skull tissue makes survival extremely improbable. Molly can confirm it. She helped me with the body, after." 

"Molly's been in on all this?" John says in disbelief. "Molly Hooper. You never even gave her the time of day. You broke her bloody heart, for God's sake. She shouldn't have given _you_ the time of day after that. _Molly_ knew all along and you couldn't tell me."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says dispassionately. The human response to everything, apologizing for nothing. It is a struggle to be cold, as it never has been before, like trying to wrestle himself into a jumper from his school days. He has a growing urge to cup John's face in his hand - he can see the roughening of a day's worth of stubble and imagine its friction against his palm. But then the gun would be against his chest, which is less than ideal even if he knows John won't pull the trigger. "It was necessary and unavoidable. The only hope of my actual survival lay in her keeping my secret. She has been worthy of it."

"Britain's most incredible mind couldn't figure out another way," John mutters.

"There was no other way," Sherlock tells him. "John, listen to me. I'd lost all my resources in the police force. If I'd gotten Lestrade sacked, I would have had less than nothing. I'd lost all my credibility. Moriarty and his network had to believe they had succeeded in discrediting me and eliminating the threat. Unfortunately, Moriarty left his legacy in the extremely capable hands of a man called Sebastian Moran, who took it up rather more eagerly than one might hope. He is extremely dangerous. I could not risk your life."

"You've risked it often enough," John says, finally lowering the gun. Sherlock hears the safety click on.

"I'm sorry for that too." Even after all of this, the words are difficult to say. 

John sets the pistol on the table, muzzle carefully pointed away, and stands there for a long moment considering Sherlock. Sherlock stands still under the scrutiny and gazes back. Bags under his eyes - John hasn't been sleeping. But he has been working, or he wouldn't have shaved even as erratically as he has, and there's a shiny place on his coat lapel where the clip of a badge has worn. A slight smell of disinfectant clings to his clothes. 

"How did you get a permit for that?" Sherlock asks. "After everything. I thought they would take it away."

"Mycroft told somebody important that I was likely to be killed if I wasn't allowed Personal Protection," John says. "Ex-military helps too. My therapist vouched for me."

"You always were a good soldier," Sherlock murmurs. They stare at each other. The gun stares only at Sherlock.

"We missed you," John says at last. "Mrs. Hudson and me. We nearly left the place."

"You should have," Sherlock says. "It isn't safe."

"Where would we have gone?" John says. "There's nowhere safer."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says, and this time he does mean it.

"Don't apologize," John tells him in an oddly gentle voice. "We walked into this with our eyes open, didn't we? As much as anybody can who doesn't have eyes like yours."

"I would have found you, if you'd gone," Sherlock offers. It seems the best proof of his affections.

"I know you would have," John says. 

"I came when I could," Sherlock tells him.

"I'm sure that you did," John says. There's an odd new look in his eyes, haunted and melancholy and soft all at once. Sherlock knows that look now. Once it would have eluded him. He studies John's face until the space around his heart aches, as if his ribs are strained trying to hold something in.

The hush of their breathing is the only thing near conversation in the flat. Sherlock soaks in the familiar ambient noises: the tick of John's watch, the whoosh and whine of traffic, the rumble of the vents, the electronic hum. Just when he thinks there will be nothing else to say, John opens his mouth. "It was lonely without you." 

The moment balances on a pivot point in time. Nothing he does now can put John in any more danger. He only hopes that he has read the evidence right. In the strange weightlessness of anticipation and terror, Sherlock steps forward. He curls his hand around John's shoulder and leans forward hesitantly. John watches him, disbelief in his expression. Sherlock closes his eyes as his mouth brushes John's, off-center and poorly executed. He doesn't want to see John's face in this moment. He is given to leaps of insight, not to leaps of faith. But John's lips move briefly against his, not in revulsion, but in acceptance. John kisses him back and then steps away.

"All right," he says, looking down at his feet but not shrugging off Sherlock's hand, still on his shoulder. "No need to get so demonstrative, Sherlock." 

"Sorry," Sherlock apologizes, his voice dry. Again the human reflex, saying things he doesn't mean. Irene would laugh to see him at this moment. "You know how easily I get carried away."

"It's all right," John says. He still doesn't meet Sherlock's eyes, but a sort of amused contentedness warms his voice. "Good to have you home. I'm sure you have a lot of stories to tell." 

"I'll step out for a bottle of wine," Sherlock offers.

"I think we might need one," John says, but he's smiling.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My take on "The Adventure of the Empty House". If Moran is that ambitious in ACD canon, so can he be in my story. Baynes is taken from "Wisteria Lodge", but I thought it would be nicer if she were a lady.

Sherlock walks down the stairs and straight into Mrs. Hudson's arms. She shrieks and drops her shopping (three cream buns, a box of English Breakfast, a rasher of bacon, a few satsumas, and two tins of beans from the sound of it).

"Hello," he says as she buries her face in his shirt. He wraps his arms around her, patting her back. There are limits to his newfound physicality, but hugging Mrs. Hudson is different. He has always hugged Mrs. Hudson. Not to hug Mrs. Hudson would be to betray the heart and soul of the British Commonwealth. Besides, she's always brought him tea.

"Oh, Sherlock," she says. "You're _home_."

"So I am," he agrees. 

"I knew you'd come," she says, smudging her face against his placket. "I knew you couldn't be dead, not really. It just wasn't _you_."

"All it takes is a little faith," he tells her, kissing the top of her head.

"Where have you been?" she asks. 

"Everywhere," he tells her. "It's too long a story for a corridor." He gives her back a last pat and releases her, bending to pick up her things. "We'll put this away and I'll pop around to the shop. John drank all the wine while I was away, if you can believe it."

"I imagine you boys have a lot to catch up on," she says. There are tears in her eyes, but her stiff upper lip is admirable, considering. 

"Yes," Sherlock says, and leaves it at that. He fusses over her for a few more minutes, letting her soak in enough of him to be certain he won't vanish, and then he slopes off to the shop. He assesses the neighborhood as he goes: a hazard there he'll keep an eye on, new items on the menu in the café, slouching youths on the corner merely looking at pornography. In less than fifteen minutes, Moran will have heard of his bold-as-brass progress through the London streets. He's certain of that - after all, it's likely that Moran was watching the Arrivals gate at Heathrow, just in case, and already knows he's in the country, if not on Baker Street. Fifteen minutes would be shabby, really - he took a winding route home, after all, and spent the greater part of the day holed up watching 221B. But he will not lurk in the shadows any longer. He gave them a year to believe that rumors were all that was left of the late great Sherlock Holmes. He gave them a year to feel secure and certain in their web of crime, in their criminal darkness, and now it is time to let in the light. 

He buys three bottles of wine, just in case, and a bottle of brandy. He has enough left still in his accounts for a little while, but eventually he may have to live on John's goodwill. The prosecution and processing of Moriarty's legacy will take a considerable amount of time. He is certain John will not have touched the assets Sherlock left to him, aside from the rent that Sherlock paid in advance, but he would rather not ask for it back. There is Mycroft's benevolence to consider as well - he'll know just as Moran does that Sherlock has returned, and likely faster. 

It will be tricky, delicate work, rebuilding his reputation. He has a great deal of information now on Moriarty and Moran and their handiwork. They have committed crimes, or rather, directed the commission thereof, on an unprecedentedly grand scale. It is literally unbelievable how much they have accomplished in the shadows. Convincing a jury will be his greatest triumph. Mycroft is likely to require a stiff drink and a chair to collapse in when he hears his little brother's testimony. Sherlock smiles to himself. It must be right this time. His case must be airtight and his evidence overwhelmingly compelling. They must not escape the net. First of all, he ought to talk to Sally Donovan, but that's a conversation he can save for another day. He will allow himself one night of relative peace.

He stops in at the Indian place for a takeaway, nearly whistling, his step light and happy. He's _home_. The war may yet rage, but he is on defensible territory now, and he will fight to the death if he has to. He texts Irene as he's waiting for the food. "Ordering dinner. Enough for three." 

He is carrying all of it back to the flat when he catches a glimpse of something he's not quite certain of: a flash of light or a shadow gone wrong or a hint of movement. But there shouldn't be anyone in that flat in that building just across from theirs and it's wrong wrong wrong. He nearly drops the bags, but that would make a scene, so he carries them instead, all the way into the alleyway and leaves them there, shoving a plastic fork into his pocket so that he'll at least have some kind of weapon. Not until he ducks into the building facing theirs (it ought to be empty, why isn't it empty) does he finally pull out his mobile. He texts John "DOWN NOW" as he's climbing the stairs as quickly and quietly as he can, and then he texts Lestrade, just in case: "Situation at Baker St come if convenient bring backup SH". 

The stairs creak a little and he moves even more carefully, ghosting up to the first floor. He's got nothing in his pockets but the fork and his phone and Irene's ring, which is a damned oversight. He should have restocked after passing through airport security. He'll have to rely on his wits and his fists. At least he's had a bit of boxing practice in the shadows these last months, and a few lessons from Irene about the importance of pressure points when dealing with unruly individuals. He takes a moment to reflect with fondness on their scuffles - she really has pain down to an art, that woman.

The door to the empty flat is swinging open. Sherlock enters cautiously, checking the corners of the room, his ears straining. He looks through the window and right into his flat across the road. At least he cannot see John. There's nobody in the sitting room, just an old sofa with the stuffing coming out at one corner and a dusty armoire with doors that won't quite close. He examines it carefully but there are no clues, nothing more than the smudges of many footprints on the floor and a sense of something not quite right. The footprints are large and some of them are new: a man, and he's still here, but Sherlock already knew that. His brain buzzes with impatience. 

Something changes, a noise or a difference in the air pressure and almost before he registers it, Sherlock has clambered into the wardrobe, pulling the doors nearly to behind him. There's just enough space to see. He is glad that his clothing tends to mostly plums and greys: no luminous white shirt to catch the light and give him away. He hasn't been waiting long when a man drifts into the room carrying a case. The man lays the case on the floor, opens it, and begins to assemble a sniper rifle with loving precision. Sherlock tries not to breathe too loudly. The sense of danger twangs through him, adrenaline pulling his body tighter than a plucked string. He will only have one chance at this. 

The sniper turns out of the range of Sherlock's vantage point, presumably setting up the rifle and squinting through the scope. Sherlock can see it in his mind's eye, if not with his physical ones. He braces, running through the litany of pressure points in order of decreasing effect. That was a memorable demonstration: he spent half the afternoon incapacitated on Irene's cool tiled floor. That was more comfortable than this cramped space, though. He can do nothing but wait.

The sniper's body tenses just slightly and Sherlock knows. _Now or never._ He leaps from the wardrobe - the door creaks and the floor thuds but he still hears the shot as he lands, and the faint tinkle of breaking glass. Damn the man. _Too late?_ He can only hope John understood. He jabs his fingertips into a pressure point above the kidneys and he loops his arm around the sniper's neck. The sniper is a large man and he struggles hard, pushing up to his feet with Sherlock still on his back. Sherlock uses the meager advantage of his height to keep his precarious hold as the man hammers down blows on his head and shoulders with heavy fists. He applies more and more pressure to the trachea, bending the man's head back until the struggling stops and the man drops to his knees and then to the floor. 

Sherlock picks up the rifle and cold-cocks him, just to be safe. He looks up and strides over to the window. His ears are ringing and he'll surely have bruises. He can see them forming already in the reflection in the glass. There is a very small hole in the glass of the window, too small to be real, he thinks, and through the window of his flat, he can see the silhouette of the body on the floor. _Too late._ He freezes.

The phone rings in his pocket. He answers it almost without looking. Before he even says anything, John is babbling. "Sherlock, it's all right, it wasn't me. Mrs. Hudson's friend made up a dummy, she's was taking a sculpting class, she needed a model. She's a dressmaker but she wanted to do men's clothing and we still had the mannequin. It's a plastic body, it goes on wheels. It's all right. I thought it would work as a decoy and it did, hah! Where are you?"

"With your would-be murderer," Sherlock says. "Come to the window, I need to see you."

"Is it safe?" John asks. "Only Mrs. Hudson wants to know." In the background, Sherlock can hear her chattering away.

"It's safe," Sherlock says, prodding the prone body with his toe. "Though I could hit him again to make sure."

"Hang on," John says, "I've just had a text from Lestrade. He says he's on his way."

"With all of his usual timeliness," Sherlock observes coolly. His blood pressure is high and his pulse is fast. His blood thrums in his ears. Adrenaline snarls through his limbic system. He wants to fight something or to kiss someone very hard for a very long time. That's a new option added to fight-or-flight. "Come to the window, I need to see you." 

John steps into view, waves, and ducks back out of visibility. Smart lad. Sherlock lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. His body gets the better of him more often, these days. 

"Shall I come over?" John asks.

"Wait for Lestrade," Sherlock says. "We'll be right here." He rings off. There's the sash from someone's dressing gown in the bottom of the wardrobe. He uses it to secure his unconscious companion to the radiator. Bless Irene twice today - she taught him these knots as well as which pressure points will keep his new friend asleep, if he decides to eschew the option of the rifle butt. Sherlock sits down and studies the man. He can't have been so lucky, and yet there are the scars, in all the right places. Surely Moran himself would not have come, on such a minor job, but then again, Moriarty worked in the IT department at St. Bart's. Sherlock indulges himself in a little twinge of schadenfreude - how irritated Moriarty must have been, packed in with ordinary mortals - but it's still too close and too real, the ringing in his ears after the gun went off and the wash of blood and the cold, frantic plotting that came after as he tried to save what friends he had in the world. A year hasn't given him enough distance from the moment he knew he'd lost everything.

He holds his thoughts steady and studies his sniper, more and more certain that this is indeed Sebastian Moran. No ID, of course - he checked every pocket he could find when he tied Moran to the radiator. But Moran has a penchant for big game and the scars to prove it: broken bones from a rogue elephant that give him a slight limp and a stiffness in his right arm (he compensates with a left cross, but there's a pause before he strikes), a curved set of scars on his cheek from the claws of a tiger. Sherlock pushes up the man's trouser leg. Yes, there's the mark of a snake bite, old but still livid. He'd bet there's a toe missing as well inside the trainer with its crepe sole. 

Well then. The best hunter for the biggest prize. Even Moriarty fell prey to that gambit. No reason his lieutenant should not, even if he's a Colonel. Sherlock sets the rifle close at hand and sits on the sofa, one arm slung over the back of the sofa as he thinks. Fragments of thoughts whirl in his brain, polarized by these new events like metal filings in a magnetic field, attracting and repelling. Evidence chains itself together; the links dissolve and reform until each piece lines up in its own proper sequence. He will have it soon, every piece he needs. 

The thud of feet coming up the stairs interrupts him. He carefully stores away the structure he's built in his memory, a deadly machine to be sure. Lestrade bursts into the room.

"Hello, Greg," Sherlock says.

"Jesus Christ," says Lestrade. "You _are_ alive."

"Oh, Christ, he's back." Donovan is with him, of course, and John following close behind, tucking his mobile into his pocket. 

"So it would seem," Sherlock says, his voice light but his whole body flooded with relief at the sight of John without a scratch on him. 

"You and I are going to have to have a drink one day and sort all this out," Lestrade says, but now his eyes are on the sniper. "Hello, who's this?"

"My would-be murderer," John says. 

"Is that so?" Lestrade asks. "This is the man who shot the mannequin? Nasty piece of work, then."

Sherlock nods. "I saw something and came to investigate. I was too late to stop him shooting. I made sure he didn't get a second chance at it, though."

Donovan scowls as she goes through the flat. Sherlock's pleased to see his minder, though she'll have a tough time believing this wasn't him as well. That's good. He wants the tough sell, the skeptic. He wants her to suspect the worst of him. Irene was right: it makes the redemption all the more delicious. He's near enough to putting together a unified theory of crime. Soon enough they'll all see.

"Why am I not surprised to find you here? An illegal weapon, an unconscious man. It's Sherlock Holmes all over," she says gruffly. "Another actor, Mister Holmes? I don't know why we even came out for this. Why couldn't you have stayed dead like a normal person? You really are a freak."

"He isn't carrying identification," Lestrade tells her, rifling through Moran's pockets.

"How convenient," she says, examining the knots of Moran's bonds. "And somebody's hit him on the head."

"To be fair, he did try to kill me," John says. "Good shot, too. I'll show you, Sherlock - right behind the ear." 

Sherlock stands up, ignoring the hollow, shaky place that yawns inside him when he thinks of identifying John's body. "I believe that when he wakes up, he will tell you that he's Colonel Sebastian Moran, former lieutenant to Moriarty and now, in the absence of the boss, head of the whole operation." 

Donovan groans. "Moriarty again."

"Moriarty _still_ ," Lestrade mutters. "He was real, Sally."

"Look, you barely got out of this with your job," she reminds him. "And you want to walk right back into it?"

"This is actually an extraordinary stroke of luck," Sherlock points out. "Moriarty had at least three times the brains of the Colonel here. He'll tell you everything, just to convince you he's dangerous. And he is extremely dangerous."

"As I can vouch for," John cuts in. "He did try to _kill me_ about half an hour ago, did I mention."

"He's the heir to a crime network like the police have never seen," Sherlock says. 

"Yours?" Donovan challenges. She's watching him with a sour eye, but Sherlock can't deny her technique has improved. She and Lestrade have gone through the flat with a startling efficiency.

"Leave off, Sally," Lestrade says. "Go get Baynes. Isn't she always talking about Colonel Moran? Her pet project." 

"Make him go," she says, jerking her head at John. "He's not doing anything. He shouldn't even be here."

"Right back," John says. Sherlock thinks he is pleased to have an order to follow. He's back in a moment with Baynes. She's tall and brunette, pretty enough, Sherlock supposes. Early thirties, two cats, only smokes when she drinks and even then just one, wanted to be a librarian, too clever for the stacks, not quite clever enough to have avoided the stagnant minds at Scotland Yard, briefly considering becoming the next of John's girlfriends even though she's casually involved with her flatmate. He thinks she's out of luck with that one, if he's got anything to do with it, anyway - that much remains to be seen. But she looks clever enough for this. Certainly keen on the job. 

"Is that really Sherlock Holmes?" she asks, stopping in her tracks for a moment.

"The one and only," Lestrade says. "Apparently. The question is, who's this one? No ID on him, but I had an inkling you might recognize him."

"That's him," she says in a voice that rings with certainty. Triumph lights up her eyes - it's a victory Sherlock will gladly give her. He doesn't need any more publicity. "That's Moran. And good news too - I've been looking for him for an age. I can tie him to a list of crimes longer than your arm." 

"Enough to justify taking him in?" Lestrade asks.

"More than enough, sir," Baynes assures him.

Moran grunts and stirs. Lestrade is after him immediately; Donovan covers him. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. Are you Colonel Sebastian Moran?"

Moran blinks at him blearily. "The London Police? You can't touch a hair on me, boy."

"Your name, sir," Lestrade repeats patiently.

Moran stays stubbornly silent.

"Look," Lestrade says, "you can tell me now or you can tell me later, but one way or another, I'll at least have your name."

"What else do you think you'll get out of me?" Moran sneers. "Take me in if you like, but it has to be legal."

"What are you doing in this flat, sir?" Donovan asks. "It's supposed to be untenanted." 

"Thinking of taking a place in town," Moran says. "Is that against the law?"

"This is," Lestrade says, hefting the rifle. "Care to explain that?"

"Care to untie me?" Moran says with a fierce grin.

"You first," Lestrade says. "Not a very sporting weapon for pheasant hunting, sir."

"My pheasants are difficult to flush out," Moran quips. "I could tell you it isn't mine."

"And I could tell you you'll be gazing at the moon through a barred window in your cell tonight," Lestrade says steadily. 

"If you think I'll be there to see the dawn, you're sorely mistaken," Moran breathes.

"Enough of this," Donovan says sharply. "I didn't come along to see a pissing contest. Let's drag him in for loitering and illegal firearms. We'll sort it all out later." She pivots to point at Sherlock. "You. Freak. Don't plan on skipping town or go off dying again."

"Now, Sergeant, I don't like to repeat myself," Sherlock says. "You'll know where to find me, alive and well."

"Right," she says. "Out. But if you're not in the Detective Inspector's office tomorrow for questioning, I will come and find you, and nobody will stop me." She glares at Lestrade and Moran both and then turns back to Sherlock and John. "Send up Anderson when you go down."

"Right," John says, and Sherlock follows him down the stairs. The hair curls at the back of John's neck in a way that is particularly endearing and his steps are light. Sherlock smiles to himself. The backup is easy enough to find: Anderson, lounging against the second car. Sherlock nods to him. Anderson scowls.

"What in the bloody hell are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"The evidence points to an opposite conclusion," Sherlock asks him. "It's a wonder you've kept your job."

"Same old Sherlock Holmes," Anderson says sourly.

"Not quite," Sherlock tells him.

"Go on," John says. "You're wanted upstairs." 

Anderson narrows his eyes but goes. In a few minutes, Baynes appears, pushing along Moran, who is handcuffed. Lestrade and Donovan follow her, Lestrade ducking into the car and picking up the radio as Donovan paces and talks on her phone. Moran leers at all of them. 

"I'll see you again, my friend," he says to Sherlock, who favors him with an icy, blank expression. As if he could be cowed by this brute when he faced down Moriarty, by miles the greater evil. Baynes folds him into the car with no more force than is necessary, but no more gentleness either.

"Mister Holmes," she says, straightening up. "Colonel Moran - he's a bad one. I've been on his trail for a long time. Nearly had him. I won't let him slip these charges. We've already been through your flat. We've got pictures of the mannequin and all. I have my own methods I've been working on, you see."

"We shall have to compare notes," Sherlock says cordially. "I seem to have an appointment tomorrow with the detective inspector. Perhaps you'll be in attendance."

"I imagine so," she says. "Looking forward to it."

"Likewise," Sherlock tells her, and surprises himself by meaning it. Her own methods - certainly it will be interesting, and at least he has an ally. 

John whistles softly. "Keep an eye out for that one."

"I'm sure you will," Sherlock says with a smirk, and John knocks his shoulder against him, half-embarrassed chastisement and half-affectionate. 

"Good to have you back," says Lestrade, who is finally off the radio. He leans over the roof of the car. "See you tomorrow?"

"Cross my heart," Sherlock says. 

"Good enough for me," Lestrade tells him, ducking back inside the car. Baynes climbs in with him and they drive off as Donovan walks up. 

"All right?" she says, tossing her hair. "Don't think it means you're off the hook, but he said things when you were gone. It's possible you're right about this one. I still want to see you tomorrow. We're not finished, freak." The old nickname has less of a sting in it now. It's certainly no worse than the things he was called at school. He nods. She turns on her heel to go back into the building. 

"Sergeant Donovan," he calls out to her. She pivots reluctantly to look back at him.

He holds out his hand. "Shall we let bygones be bygones?

She narrows her eyes at him, mostly out of habit, he thinks. He sees something twitch at the corner of her mouth but she grasps his hand, shaking it firmly. His hand aches a little from the strength of her grip. 

"I was right to be suspicious," she says, glaring at him.

Sherlock allows himself a lopsided smile. The humanizing effect working on him, no doubt, reminding him that he does not have to conceal his every thought. "Yes, you were. Well done."

"Thanks," she says. "I don't need you to tell me, but...thanks."

"Someone's got to keep an eye out where no one else is watching," Sherlock points out. "It isn't easy. I should know."

She nods shortly and then gives him a last speculative look before she shoves her hands into her pockets and slopes off toward the other car to wait for Anderson's team. Anderson's turn at last to be a real policeman. Forensics, forever an afterthought when there's a live body at the scene.

"Now what?" John asks. 

"There was dinner," Sherlock says, and ducks down the alley. His bags are still there. He rummages through them quickly. "The alcohol's survived, but the curry's gone cold," he tells John, who laughs in disbelief.

"Only you, Sherlock. Come on, let's go home. Leave it for your homeless network or some lucky teenager. We'll get something else. There's an Ethiopian place a few blocks away - we'll get our hands dirty." John smiles and Sherlock smiles back. They walk down the street, their steps falling into sync, natural and easy and right. Warmth spreads through Sherlock's body, more than just the summer heat. He thinks of Irene's message, the rich texture of the paper and the rich texture of her voice, and he looks at the way John's cheek crinkles when he smiles so broadly. This life he'll make worth living, and he'll start tonight.


	9. Chapter 9

The Ethiopian restaurant is good, which is excellent, because Sherlock finds that he is ravenously hungry after the poor fare on the airplane. He and John wash their hands in lemony water and sit cross-legged on the floor and stuff themselves full of injera and thick stews, washing it down with honey wine. John tells anecdotes about things that have happened at the hospital, his eyes bright. Sherlock finds himself laughing, feeling freer than he has since he first heard the five pips over the phone at the beginning of the whole business. It is as if a weight has been lifted from him. He still chose the table in the corner so that he could survey the room with his back against a solid wall, but tonight seems a charmed space, free of menace.

"Irene sends her love," he says casually, folding a scrap of injera around a hunk of spicy lamb. 

"Irene Adler?" John asks, his own morsel halfway to his mouth. "She isn't dead either?"

"Decisively alive," Sherlock says, overwhelmed for a moment by a memory of her hot breath against his skin. He closes his eyes briefly and takes a long sip of sweet wine.

"Does no one ever really die anymore?" John asks in astonishment. "Not that I'm sad, mind. Beheaded in Afghanistan would be an awful way to go - I should know. I suppose you saved her?"

"As ever, John, you see, but you do not observe," Sherlock says. "There's not many places in this quarter of the world where I could have gotten such a quantity of Kahwah and green cardamom. You drank it cheerfully enough, and never even asked any questions."

"Well," John says after he finishes chewing, "I'm glad she's alive. And I'm sure you are as well. Is that where you've been all this time? Never thought you'd be the type to lose your way over a woman, even that one."

Sherlock says nothing, but he feels his cheeks redden. A rush of blood to the head, he thinks, not quite the same in this case as the little death. But oh, the memories that rush brings. The door to that room in his mind palace swings wide for a moment, and he smells musk and amber. He closes his eyes for a moment to compose himself.

"You sly dog," John says in astonishment. "You didn't. You couldn't. Oh, Lord, you could and you did. Sherlock!"

"I spent some time in her company," Sherlock admits. "When I wasn't otherwise occupied. Gathering information on the world's largest crime syndicate takes a significant amount of time, as you might imagine."

"And so would a woman like that. She taught you the ways of the flesh, did she?" John teases. "Good on you, mate. There's a whole new world out there."

Sherlock clears his throat. "They say that a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

John leans back, grinning. "That's a tale enough for me."

"It wasn't tawdry," Sherlock insists. 

John waves one hand. "I'm sure it wasn't." He reaches for the wine. "A toast. To Sherlock Holmes' reappearance in the world of the living, and to whatever hand Ms Irene Adler may have had in that." They clink their glasses together. John sips and smirks. "I imagine she was all hands, eh?"

Sherlock nearly chokes on his wine and has to cough and sputter into his napkin for a moment. He sets glass and napkin down precisely on the table and rips off another fold of flatbread. "I don't want to talk about it."

"That's what they all say," John says cheerfully, pouring himself some more wine. "A couple more glasses of this in you and you won't be able to stop talking."

"In that case, we might as well finish up and go home," Sherlock says. "I wouldn't want to create an indelicate situation."

John beams. "How times change. God, it's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back," Sherlock says. "There's no place like London." He pauses. "And it wasn't the same without my blogger." 

"Nothing to blog about with you gone," John says, looking at his lap. "Nobody wants to hear about anybody else's private hell, I think." He looks up again. "But it'll be all right now, won't it?"

"I think we can count on at least one night of peace," Sherlock says. He empties the wine bottle into his glass. "Tomorrow the world may go up in flames around us again."

John looks away. "Then tonight will have to be enough."

The scraps of food left in the communal plate make a poignant still life, apparently; he and John are both gazing at them as if searching for some hidden meaning. The ritual of tidying up the table and paying the check seems to take an age. Sherlock fidgets with the ring in his pocket, turning it around and around the second joint of his ring finger. Irene's fingers are much more slender than his. He tries not to think of them, though a kaleidoscope of snippets of memories flashes on the screen of his mind as he stands at the counter, waiting for his receipt. John takes a toothpick from the little box on the counter and at last they're out in the air again. Sherlock fills his lungs with the scent of the London breeze, which carries with it the scent of John's aftershave. Sherlock pauses, holding himself steady against the wave of emotion that threatens to drown him: relief, happiness, longing, comfort. Here is another downside to living among emotional humans, then, the unexpected power of sense memory. He will have to learn to master these whims of his body. The exhaustion buzzing through him from the ordeal of travel and the excitement of the day doesn't help. His defenses are lowered. He thinks of lavender and sweet orange, the wallpaper in Baker Street, the crackle of a fire in Irene's flat, the now-familiar feel of Irene's mouth and the brief impression of John's. John turns and smiles at him in a puzzled sort of way, his eyebrows question marks.

"Nothing," Sherlock says. "It's nothing. It's just good to be home."

It is fine to walk the streets of London at night, where the darkness is never so dark as all that. There is light in London. There may be justice in London, and not the rough sort delivered by fists. They pick up another bottle of wine on the way back to the flat, a dry red to counterbalance the sweetness of the honey wine. There is cardboard taped over the broken window and Mrs. Hudson has swept up all the glass and left them two cream buns. Something that has been out of place somewhere intangible inside Sherlock settles back, comfortable. He takes a deep breath as he opens the windows and draws all the curtains. 

"Look," John says, wheeling over the mannequin. Sherlock has to admit that Mrs. Hudson's friend has done a decent job of recreating John's square frame, although below the broad shoulders, the dressmaker's model still has breasts. He raises one eyebrow at John.

"All right, all right," John says, "she wasn't quite finished, but it would have been a bit gruesome just to hack them off. But look." He turns the mannequin so that Sherlock can examine the head, molded of foam and latex. "A neat shot, eh?" The head is formidable stuff to have absorbed the force of the shot and survived intact. John's skull would not have. Sherlock tries very hard not to imagine the ballistics reports and the photographs: there is the downside to having a mind quicker and clever than anyone else's. There is a hole just behind the ear, gouged now where Baynes must have dug out the bullet. Sherlock touches the place with two fingertips that shake just a bit. He will not let this overwhelm him. He takes his rage and his fear and his worry and makes them cold steel to brace his spine. He will need all his strength for the coming battle. He cannot let this make him weak or vulnerable. He will hunt them to the ends of the earth if he must, for these attempts to take the heart of him, for these attempts to turn his refuges into places of mourning.

"Hey," John says, and it strikes Sherlock that John is repeating himself, that he has been speaking for some moments. He turns. "Hey, Sherlock, it's all right. I'm here. I'm fine."

Sherlock blinks. He reaches up and touches John's cheek. His fingers are stained with turmeric and smell of curry despite the lemon water, but John doesn't seem to mind; he leans into Sherlock's hand. The reality of John's skin against his palm and the strength of John's bones soothes Sherlock. 

"I don't know what this is," Sherlock says. It is difficult to admit. He hopes John knows how difficult.

"Neither do I," John tells him. "Live in the moment, Sherlock."

"I'm not sure that isn't the wine talking," Sherlock tells him, but his hand is still cupped around John's face.

"Maybe we should open the other bottle, then," John says, his eyes soft. "You can tell me where you've been all this time."

"Lost," Sherlock says, and lets his hand drop. "And found."


	10. Chapter 10

They take their shoes off and open the other bottle of wine and slouch into the familiar armchairs. Sherlock picks up his violin and narrates some of his adventures: the subway tunnel in New York, the wild sweep of the wind over the Canadian prairies, the bazaars of Dakar, the neon underbelly of Bangkok, the clean streets of Irene's neighborhood in Buenos Aires, and the filthy back alleys of Karachi. The violin sets the scene. He makes John nearly cackle with a story about trying to fit himself into a Japanese hotel room as the violin swoops in humorous counterpoint, an audible pratfall. It doesn't feel real when he thinks of it, the year gone in search of evidence. His time at Irene's anchors it, but the interludes of darkness and desperation seem like a dream from this bright room in Baker Street. The level in the wine bottle drops lower and lower until Sherlock is tipping the dregs into his glass, the warmth of the alcohol spreading evenly through him. 

"Oh, Lord," John sighs, looking at the ceiling. "How I missed this."

Sherlock says nothing but lets the violin speak for him: a snippet of Bach, a romantic little tune, the swell of emotion over a firm logical counter-melody. He does enjoy Bach. The thinking man's love song, as it were. The draft from the open window feels like a caress. He has undone the top few buttons of his shirt. John is wearing a t-shirt, looking rumpled and relaxed.

"It's late," John says, checking his watch. 

"Time marches on apace," intones Sherlock, which earns him a smile from John.

"We ought to turn in," John says, heaving himself out of his chair. "Big day tomorrow, ridding the world of crime."

"Feel free," Sherlock says, playing a snatch of a lullaby.

"You too, Sherlock," John says. "Doctor's orders. You'll need your rest. With jet lag and all, I'm surprised you're not dead to the world right now. So to speak." He offers Sherlock a hand. Sherlock sets down the violin and lets John pull him up. Somehow one of them overbalances - the quantity of wine sloshing in them, perhaps, overwhelming their personal gravities - and they end up with their arms around each other in the center of the room. 

"Ah," says Sherlock.

"Oh," says John.

They stand there as if they are unable to move. John is warm and vibrantly alive. Sherlock rests his fingertips against the base of John's throat, hypnotized by the regular but quickening beat of John's pulse. It is a simple, natural thing for Sherlock to dip his head slightly and brush his lips against John's. John meets him halfway, his mouth dry and hot and utterly unlike Irene's. They stay that way for a long moment, lips ghosting against each other with careful nonchalance, as if it doesn't count this way, when they are barely touching. John's arms tighten slightly around Sherlock. The pressure between their bodies increases. John sighs and lets his head fall.

"You're not gay," Sherlock says, resting his forehead against John's.

"Not as far as I know," John agrees. "And you've never been interested in sex with anybody in your life. Now look at the pair of us." He chuckles; it isn't exactly a happy sound. "Irene said something like that, once. Bless and curse her."

"Did she," Sherlock breathes, though he remembers well enough the echoes in the warehouse. It is odd how exquisite it feels just to be holding John. He feels a strange and wonderful completeness and misses Irene all at once.

"Me and her and you," John says. "One big tangle. No way to deal with it but by living with it."

"Or dying for it," Sherlock says before he thinks. He blames the wine. He blames the scent of John's skin. He blames his own pineal gland, overrunning his system with hormones, overriding his usual defenses.

"Everything was rubbish while you were gone," John says into the hollow of Sherlock's throat, as if not being able to see Sherlock's face makes it easier. "Everything. I was gutted. I got into a couple of fights. Harry had to talk me down a time or two. When an alcoholic tells you you've got a drinking problem...." He trails off and rubs his face against Sherlock's shoulder, pushing hard, nearly butting at Sherlock. Sherlock understands the urge to punish with loving, desperate force; Irene taught him that much.

"I don't know any other way," John says abruptly. "To feel like this about someone and to be with them. Or not to be with them. Not...touch them. It's never been like this before. I don't know if this is the right thing to do or not."

"It's a brave new world for both of us," Sherlock assures him. He kisses John again, just to see if it feels the same. It doesn't. It feels better. John kisses him back with a little more fervor, a little more pressure, mouths still closed but seeking something. 

"If all we have is tonight..." John murmurs. "I wouldn't want to regret it."

"I wouldn't want you to either," Sherlock says, drawing away a bit.

"No," John says, tightening his grip. "I had a lot of time to think about what I might regret while you were gone. What I did regret. What I mean is, so what, you're not a woman, because you're _you_ and I'm _me_ and we're _us_ and I was so bloody _lost_ without you. And I don't know how to stand here, feeling this way, and not hold onto you with all the strength I've got. I just...I need to know you're really here." He slides his palm through the open neck of Sherlock's shirt, his fingers just resting there. His touch pulls at Sherlock's blood the way the moon pulls the tide; he wavers closer to John. They stand there in this tableau, aching with something Sherlock can't put a name to. It has too many dimensions for one word to encompass. He glances at their reflection in the mirror: they cling to one another like two drowning men trying to stay afloat.

"If living with you has taught me anything," John says, "it's to follow the evidence. And the evidence says that you're for me, whatever else is true. It seems to be working out so far."

The only noise in the apartment is their synchronized breath and Sherlock's pulse pounding in his ears. "I was wrong," he says, when the silence is too poignant to bear. "You do observe."

John laughs, resting his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. "Jesus," he says, apropos of nothing.

"John," Sherlock says gently.

"Shut up," John tells him. "If you don't want this, say so."

Sherlock says nothing.

"Right," John nods. "I've never done this with a man before and I might be complete bollocks but just shut up, all right."

Sherlock shuts up. John, concentrating very hard, undoes the next of Sherlock's buttons. Sherlock doubts his hand-eye coordination has suffered that much from the effects of the alcohol - he has seen John much more inebriated and still capable - but he refrains from commenting. John undoes another button and another until the whole front of Sherlock's shirt is open, and then he pushes his hands inside the fabric and runs both his hands down over Sherlock's chest and ribs to rest at his hips where Sherlock's shirt is still tucked into his trousers. Sherlock's skin prickles into gooseflesh; his nipples harden and the predictable effects of his arousal become apparent, nudging John's thigh. At least it is a game of equals and he is aware in return of John's erection.

"Right," John says again, breathing faster. "Good. Now." He reaches up to pull Sherlock's head down and kisses him, harder this time, his mouth opening and his tongue sliding against Sherlock's. Sherlock kisses him back, desire kindled in a sudden rush as if the fuel has been there waiting for a spark all this time. It is volatile, this passion: it fills the air with fumes that ignite and nearly set the air burning around them. He fumbles for the hem of John's t-shirt, shoving it up until he can press the bare skin of his stomach against John's. Both of them groan at the contact, slight as it is. 

"Jesus," John repeats and Sherlock nips at him, just for fun. Kissing John is like and unlike kissing Irene. It is hot wet mouths and sharp teeth and rough tongues, but Irene's face was smoother, the line of her jaw less prominent. Every move she made was calculated, gracefully dominant. John's chin knocks against Sherlock's in a heedless way Sherlock thinks he likes. John seems not to mind. He kisses Sherlock even more fiercely. Sherlock takes the hem of John's t-shirt and drags it even higher, tugging until John has to step back and raise his arms so that Sherlock can pull the wretched thing all the way off. Sherlock surveys him. John is panting slightly, his eyes wide and his hair wild. There is a scar on his shoulder where he took the bullet in Afghanistan, and other scars besides. Sherlock moves to kiss them. 

"Not yet, you don't," John says, his voice ragged, and he yanks Sherlock's shirt from his shoulders, ripping the fabric away from Sherlock's body until he can toss the shirt across the room. "Fair's fair." He grabs Sherlock's belt and pulls him close again, wrapping his arms around Sherlock as if he wants to press their bodies together into one being. Sherlock's ribs ache but he'd move closer if he could. He slides his knee between John's, notching their hips together, one of his hands caressing John's back and the other in John's hair as they kiss and kiss and kiss until Sherlock thinks he will never breathe again. Somehow, he's all right with that. He would rather asphyxiate than go without kissing John.

John clutches at him, his fingers digging into the muscles of Sherlock's back. He makes a helpless noise and drops his head to sink his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock traces John's scars with a fingertip and John shivers against him. Sherlock ducks his head and tastes the salt starting on John's skin. It's hot in the flat, and only getting hotter as the friction between them increases. Their hips grind together as if they're independent of the rest of them, the focus of all of their yearnings.

"This isn't working," John groans. Sherlock freezes, his hands flat against John's back. "No," John says immediately, "no, no, no, Sherlock, that isn't what I meant." He kisses Sherlock. "Just that _this_ " - he undoes the buckle of Sherlock's belt and whips it from its belt loops - "isn't" - he undoes the button and the flys of Sherlock's trousers and shoves them off Sherlock's hips - "working." He slips his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock's boxerbriefs and pulls him close again as Sherlock kicks his feet out of the trousers. "Not you. Never you."

"Oh," Sherlock says. "Well. That's different."

"Very different," John agrees, turning his face up to Sherlock's. 

"Tit for tat, I believe," says Sherlock, and drops to his knees.

"What..." John begins and then swallows his words abruptly as Sherlock makes a strategic application of his lips to the jut of John's hip. "Ah." The quarters are a little close, but Sherlock manages to undo John's jeans and pull them down. He nuzzles at the fabric covering John's erection. John gasps. "Sherlock!"

"An experiment, if you will," Sherlock says with as much dignity as he can muster, looking up the expanse of John's belly to John's startled eyes. "Allow me?"

"If you want," John says, looking perplexed but positively dizzy with desire. Sherlock slides his fingers inside the elastic of John's boxers and eases them down John's thighs. John's legs are much hairier and more muscular than Irene's, but Sherlock's certain that the principle is the same. Ignoring for the moment the insistent push of John's cock against his cheek, he lips at the crease of John's thigh, which makes John groan and shake. Sherlock smiles to himself. Time to apply another principle, one which doesn't translate exactly, but surely having been on the receiving end, he understands the fundamentals. He wraps his fingers around John's cock and licks his lips - it presents a bit of a daunting prospect, now that he's on a level with the thing. But he eases the head of it into his mouth and John's reaction is more than enough reward, and he comes up with some really inventive swearing that Sherlock stores away for later. 

Sherlock slides his tongue as far along the length of John's shaft as he can. It's an interesting flavor, salt and musk; he thinks he might quite enjoy it, given time. John's skin is hot and silky under Sherlock's tongue, a tactile delight. John groans and puts his hand on the top of Sherlock's head and thrusts a little into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock swirls his tongue around John's cock and tries to keep up. It's much more difficult to breathe through this than kissing. Fortunately, he's heard that practice makes perfect. He keeps up, easing his mouth back and forth, keeping a strong grip on the base of John's shaft, which is harder and harder to do as John thrusts with more and more strength. The noises he make make Sherlock want to touch himself, any kind of pressure against the places crying out for heat and friction, but he's using his other hand to steady himself, and there's no leverage for his hips. Finally John stills himself with an effort and tugs at Sherlock. 

"Up," he says. "Up, come on, Sherlock, up you get." He sounds winded and breathless. Sherlock scrambles to his feet. Irene was right - his jaw does ache a bit. 

"No good?" he asks.

"Too good," John assures him with a linger kiss. "Much...too good, Sherlock, did Irene teach you that too? Lucky girl. I shall have to send her a thank you note." He jerks his head towards his bedroom. "Come on. I'm not seducing you for the very first time in the middle of the living room. You deserve better than that."

Sherlock follows along. John sits down on the edge of the bed - nudity really is an absurd state for the human male, Sherlock reflects, even as he enjoys the sight of John without a stitch on - and pats the mattress beside him. "Come on, I won't bite."

"I won't mind if you do," Sherlock tells him, sitting down gingerly. Oddly, he feels less unclothed around John than he did around Irene, but it's still strange and new. 

"Bless Irene," John says to the air. "Seriously, come closer." He pulls Sherlock on top of him and rolls backwards onto the bed. Sherlock props himself up on his forearms so that he isn't crushing John; his hand cups the back of John's head as he leans down to kiss John. 

"This is nice," he murmurs. He can feel the rumble of his own voice in his chest where his bones press against John's. 

"Good," John says, "because I'm playing it by ear, here." He hooks his thumbs into Sherlock's boxerbriefs and pushes until Sherlock wriggles out of them. Finally all their skin is touching and both of them sigh in relief and pleasure. Sherlock shifts slightly and that's even better, and he shifts again and it's better still and then John catches hold of him and pushes him off. 

"Give's a mo'," he says, running all his words together as he slides out from under Sherlock. He reaches for his night table and pulls a bottle out of the drawer, tipping some of the contents into his hand. He cups his palm around Sherlock's cock, slicking the lubricant over Sherlock's hot skin; the chill of it makes Sherlock gasp. John slathers his own cock with the other hand and then falls back onto the bed. "There. Now. That's better." He pulls Sherlock back down on top of him and kisses him so thoroughly that Sherlock forgets whatever he was thinking. John's right - it _is_ better now that delicate skin can slide with ease. Sherlock settles himself again, his elbow digging into the mattress so that he can stroke John's cheek, enjoying the texture of John's stubble under his fingertips. John slips a hand between their hips, curling his fingers around Sherlock's cock, and Sherlock groans into John's mouth. He can feel John smile under him. 

The room glows blurry around the edges of his vision. The only thing Sherlock can focus on is John, and he'd rather be kissing John than looking at him, their mouths hungry, never sated. The breeze from the window blows across Sherlock's back and he shudders, grinding his hips into John's. He isn't quite sure where he is anymore, after so long in the world, only that John's here too and that's what matters. John's murmuring to him, something that isn't really words, and Sherlock's talking back in grunts and groans and gasps. John fists his free hand in Sherlock's hair and drags him down, kissing him fiercely, his hips bucking against Sherlock's as Sherlock desperately tries to balance over him. He bears down as John's shuddering subsides, but John's hand is still moving around Sherlock's cock and that's enough, it's more than enough, and Sherlock's bones are shaking apart before he can even take another breath. 

It takes an effort to move off John. Sherlock has to collect himself first, breathing the sweaty warm scent of John's neck, coming back to this room in this flat on this continent. Yes, he's home, with John stroking his back and pushing gently at him.

"You know, I really though that would be more awkward," John says in thoughtful wonder.

"God knows you have enough experience with your own equipment," Sherlock mumbles, still seeing stars.

"Move, you great lump," John says with affection, shoving at Sherlock's shoulder. "I can't feel my hand anymore."

"Love is sticky," Sherlock says, rolling over and collapsing next to John, who laughs in disbelief.

"Not sure truer words were ever spoken," he murmurs, flexing his fingers. "Thank you, Sherlock Holmes, for that wisdom for the ages."

"I liked it," Sherlock offers.

John grins. "I know you did. Tell you what, next time, I'll be on top. I think I'm less likely to suffocate you collapsing on you."

They smile at each other like idiots for a few timeless moments measured only by the slowing thud of their pulses. Sherlock turns on his side and rests his chin on John's arm, studying him. John looks back, tired, but pleased. 

"Regrets?" Sherlock asks, keeping his voice light.

"None," John says firmly. "Not even one. If the whole world falls down around our ears tomorrow, I'll still be glad this happened."

"Good," Sherlock says. 

"If someone got pictures of this somehow and put them on the internet, I still wouldn't regret it," John says, waxing expansive. He waves one hand in the air. "I might be a little unhappy that I wasn't wearing my best pants, mind you, but there isn't any justice in this universe."

"Except me," Sherlock says, dazed and drowsy.

"Except you," John agrees. "Sherlock. I'm glad you're home. It wasn't the same without you."

"I'm glad you're glad," Sherlock says, yawning as if his face will split. All of it is catching up to him now: the travel, the fear, the food, the wine, the hope, the joy, the sex. He's more tired than he can remember being, but he's happier too. "I'm going to fall asleep now."

"I'll be here when you wake up," John promises. 

"My Watson," Sherlock says, drifting away. 

John drags the sheet over them and kisses Sherlock on the forehead. "Sleep, you idiot genius."

Sherlock burrows into the pillow and smiles. Mrs. Hudson was right. They will only need the one bedroom, though he suspects it will be useful to keep both beds - he has been known to be unbearable. Everything is rosy for now, though. He hopes, as he drifts off, that it does not presage a red dawn.


	11. Chapter 11

When Sherlock opens his eyes, John is still asleep. Sherlock watches him, considering John's face. Strange that something so familiar could seem so different. He finds that he is fond of the softness of John's lashes, of the restfulness of John's face in the pale morning light. John always seems to look worried while he's awake. Perhaps it's that his bed is more comfortable than Sherlock's. Perhaps it's the lingering endorphins from last night's explorations. Either way, Sherlock's mouth twitches into a smile that he suspects is probably tender and just a bit sentimental. 

John, of course, chooses that inopportune moment to open his eyes. He blinks at Sherlock without surprise. His pupils dilate and contract as the light hits them. It's an interesting effect.

"Regrets?" Sherlock asks, his voice rasping a bit.

"Not one," John tells him. "Except maybe not starting earlier."

"It would have been worse if we had," Sherlock said. "Think of the pining. Awful."

"You're right," John says. "As always."

"I'm always right about things that matter," Sherlock reminds him.

"Yes, you are," John says. "Serious stuff, this."

"Excessively," Sherlock agrees.

They lie there for a while gazing at each other. Thoughts chase their tails through Sherlock's mind. Was this wise? Perhaps not. Then again, Moriarty did not hesitate to take his heart long before they ever felt skin against skin. Sherlock cannot deny the sense of rightness about it. John reaches out to stroke Sherlock's cheek, running his fingers down Sherlock's neck to squeeze his shoulder. Sherlock pushes his toes against John's. It's the same and not the same as it always was. It's the same and not the same as being with Irene. He'll have to take it as it comes, he supposes. Somehow that's all right, this time. 

They share a shower, which is awkward, but in sort of a nice way. It's nothing like the sensual elegance of sharing a bath with Irene, which Sherlock did a few times, but it's not nearly so studied either, which he likes. John's spontaneity has its own charms. 

"You kept my soap," Sherlock says when John hands it to him. 

"I did," John says, ducking his head. The tips of his ears are red from blushing as he rinses shampoo out of his hair. 

"It doesn't smell as good as yours," Sherlock says dismissively, setting it down. It's a touching gesture all the same. He wonders what other of these talismans John has kept. He kisses John and gets a face full of water for his troubles, but it's pleasant nonetheless. What a strange thing it is to be human and in love and happy even with water dripping from his nose. 

"She spoiled you for the plain stuff, did she," John says. He grins. "Fine, I'll share."

"I'll buy you some more," Sherlock offers. "We can be sickeningly domestic about it. Compare scents, discuss benefits of soothing versus cleansing, argue over pricing. This is a one-time offer, mind you."

"I'll consider it," John says. He laughs. "God, this is strange. Good, but utterly...strange."

"Bathing together?" Sherlock suggests, slathering conditioner into his hair - it will frizz otherwise, and he ought to look presentable today.

" _Being_ together," John says. "I didn't even know I felt like this. Nice, though."

"Quite," Sherlock says, and they smile at each other under the spray and then look away. It is altogether too much for the span of a few hours.

They each steal a quick feel while they're drying off, and several more while John is dressing and Sherlock is still swathed in his towel - no clothes of his in John's wardrobe, except for possibly a familiar jumper in the back. There's a glint in John's eyes that Sherlock's not certain he's ever seen. He likes it.

When they finally get to the sitting room, Mrs. Hudson has made coffee, and Mycroft is sitting in Sherlock's favorite armchair. 

"Damn," Sherlock says, stopping in his tracks. John bumps into him, his cheek against Sherlock's bare shoulder.

"Hello, little brother," Mycroft says, his words sounding as ever as if they're cut from some punctilious cloth with very sharp scissors. No frayed edges. God, is everything about his brother tweedy? "I see the reports of your death have been greatly exaggerated."

"You must have known," Sherlock says, "or are you slowing down in your old age? Shame." He is oddly warmed to see Mycroft after all this time, and also annoyed. This is his own triumph. He does not want to share it.

"I had my suspicions," Mycroft admits, crisp and cool and completely irritating. "A word here, a whisper there. You kept to the shadows. It's good to see you, Sherlock." 

"Yes, yes, family feeling and all that," Sherlock says.

"Sherlock," John says in admonishment.

Sherlock sighs. "How've you been, Mycroft?" he mumbles in feigned interest. "Well, I hope? Teeth not bothering you overmuch? How's the diet? You look positively haggard, old man."

"Interesting," Mycroft says, looking at John. His eyes flicker from the pair of them to Sherlock's trousers still crumpled on the floor next to John's jeans. "More than just a wardrobe malfunction, then." 

Mrs. Hudson bustles in and throws her hands up in front of her face. "Sherlock! It isn't as if you haven't got clean clothes. We haven't touched your things. Well, I aired them out a bit now and again. Didn't want the mold coming back, you know."

"Yes, I imagine they're all in your room," Mycroft says with overcareful enunciation. "Odd, that you wouldn't have put them on before you left it."

"A puzzle for the finest minds in Europe," Sherlock snaps.

"Sherlock," John says again, and Sherlock calms himself. Well, his morning plans are rather spoiled, but at least he has his terry-swaddled dignity.

"I'm going to get dressed," he announces. "After that, I am going to have a cup of coffee, and after that, Mycroft, you may cross-examine me to your heart's desire for, oh, an hour and a half, after which I have an appointment with Detective Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard." 

It feels like crawling back into his own skin to put on his old clothes, if his skin didn't fit quite the same way it always did before. His bespoke things from Argentina aren't fit to wear at this point and aside from that, they're in John's room and, yes, all over the sitting room. Wardrobe malfunction indeed. A highly localized cyclone, Mycroft might have said. 

Sherlock smirks at himself in the mirror and tugs his lapels straight, taking a nice long time about it. He isn't ashamed and he isn't embarrassed and he has no regrets. What a man does in his own house under what is undoubtedly the most covert and respectful of surveillance (on his brother's end at least, he can't speak for any other interested parties) is that man's business, or those men's business, in any case. Whoever may be on the other end of that particular device had better get used to it quickly. He does not plan to stop now that he has begun. There is still so much to discover about John.

He can hear murmuring in the living room. Sherlock gives himself one last once over in the mirror - the hair still needs work - and goes out to save John from questions like "Exactly what are your intentions toward my brother?" As if he's some blushing virgin, his heart and his virtue prizes to be won. As if John isn't tenderly and fiercely devoted to him even without the sex. As if they haven't risked their lives to prove their hearts, over and over. Dear God, he's getting maudlin. But he can't help the heat of the joy that wells up in him when he saunters back into the sitting room and John, vaguely and endearingly exasperated, catches his eye. Sherlock sympathizes. Mycroft can be so medieval.

"Coffee," Sherlock announces, and he drinks three cups, black with two sugars, just to vex Mycroft. The coffee in Irene's neighborhood was better, but Mrs. Hudson does her British best. He makes and eats a piece of toast, prolonging the quiet. Finally, he looks at his watch with a great show. 

"There," he tells Mycroft. "You still have an hour."

"Despite the admirable way you dragged your feet," Mycroft says.

"I don't appreciate you cross-examining John," Sherlock says.

"You've never minded before," Mycroft says mildly.

"Who says I haven't?" Sherlock says, and pours himself another cup of coffee. 

"I had rather hoped your time in Ms Adler's company would civilize you," Mycroft says, steepling his fingers. "It seems to have had some other fascinating effects. How is she, by the way?"

"Vigorously alive, and intending to stay that way," Sherlock says, raising his cup to his brother.

"Vigorously," Mycroft says. "Indeed."

"Must you?" Sherlock demands. 

"Must I what?" Mycroft asks, raising an eyebrow. He sips at his own cup of coffee. 

"Make it sound...suspect," Sherlock says. 

"To be fair, she did try to blackmail the British government for an enormous sum of money," Mycroft points out. "She is the very definition of suspect. But I didn't come to interrogate you about your relationship with her."

"Or my relationship with John," Sherlock says. 

Mycroft hesitates. "Perhaps another time."

"Don't I get a say in this?" John asks, leaning forward in his chair. Mycroft blinks at him, which makes Sherlock scowl, and John sits back. "Never mind. Forget I asked."

"Of course you do," Sherlock says fiercely. "Mycroft, that's out of bounds."

"Unless and until it pertains to the security of this nation," Mycroft says, taking another delicate sip of coffee. "Which brings me back to my reason for coming here. Sherlock, what exactly do you plan to do with the information which you have acquired on Moriarty's former crime syndicate?"

"Whatever I like," Sherlock says, sulking. He always does feel like a schoolboy called up on the carpet before the headmaster when Mycroft takes this mood.

Mycroft waits.

Sherlock sighs and sets down his cup and throws himself backwards into his chair. There is nothing like the presence of his blood relatives to reduce him to a stroppy adolescent. He has always stood in the shadow of his brother. His older, wiser, sophisticated brother who can make a passable attempt at small talk and caring about mundanity. He does not want Mycroft's job or envy his life, but he is always, always cognizant that Mycroft, with his smooth pleasant inoffensiveness, is the greater man. Erratic genius only goes so far.

"Fine," he says. "Now that the police have Moran in custody, I was planning to save it for the trial. The modifications on that gun will link him to several murders even if they drop the charge of attempted murder against John." He pauses for a moment to reflect on the rage and icy fear that attempt inspires in him when he considers what might have been. "I have evidence that will link him to a considerable number of other crimes, or at least to those who perpetrated the acts." 

"Would you consider speaking with my legal team?" Mycroft asks. 

"Hah," Sherlock says. "Afraid I won't be a presentable witness?"

"After the debacle you made of the Moriarty case, that is exactly what I fear," Mycroft says coolly. "There are those who will not welcome the news of your resurrection."

"D'you think?" John bursts out.

"Precautions are being taken," Mycroft assures him. "You will be protected, the two of you and your Mrs. Hudson."

"Moriarty was real," Sherlock grumbles. 

"I am aware," Mycroft tells him. "If you were a killer, Sherlock, someone would have outfoxed you by now."

"Someone did," Sherlock says grimly. "That was why I had to die, if you remember."

"Yes, well," Mycroft says, adjusting his tie. "You got away in the end. It's a pity he isn't around to testify again. I suspect you could make a go of convincing a jury, this time. Not on your own, of course. You looked like a maniac, up there by yourself talking about how he was a spider instead of a man."

"The metaphor was appropriate," Sherlock says through gritted teeth.

"Be that as it may," Mycroft says, pushing himself to his feet and picking up his umbrella. "The court would prefer a more literal testimony this time. Thank Mrs. Hudson for the tea for me, will you? I'll be in touch. And so will my counsel."

"I'll consider speaking to them," Sherlock says, laying his head on the back of his armchair and gazing at the reflection of the room in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. 

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, pausing by the door.

"What now?" growls Sherlock.

"I am happy for you," Mycroft says. 

Sherlock says nothing. There is no precedent for this situation. 

"Thank you," John says as the silence stretches out uncomfortably. 

"If you could see your way to convincing my brother that I have more than a professional interest in his continued existence, I would count it as a great favor," Mycroft tells him. "Good day, gentlemen."

"He's such a relic from the Victorian era some days," Sherlock grumbles after Mycroft's footsteps have faded down the stairs and the door has closed.

"He's your brother," John says gently. "He has your best interests at heart."

"And when was the last time you talked to Harriet?" Sherlock demands.

"Last week," John says. "She checks in on me fairly regularly these days. Didn't want me slumping into despair and drink. I was in a bit of a state for the last, oh, twelve months or so."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says after a moment, surprising himself by meaning it. He does not like to think of John alone, a phone call away from desperate measures. "I don't want to fight."

"Well, there's a first," John says. He smiles his lopsided, tolerant smile, his putting-up-with-Sherlock smile, and offers Sherlock a hand. "Up you get. Don't want to be late for your appointment." He slides his arm around Sherlock's waist and pulls him closer. It isn't quite a practiced move. They are not used to each other yet, and John for all his experience is not Irene, with her grace and her skill. But Sherlock appreciates it all the more for its slightly awkward newness, its promise of ease to come. He was afraid that John would be better at this than he is; they can become accustomed together to their togetherness. He will make an effort at being interested in these human affairs.

"We have a little time," he murmurs.

"Not enough for that," John admonishes. He kisses Sherlock, a bit tentatively, stretching up. It's different in the daylight. There's nowhere to hide, no shadows to soften the improbable reality of it all. But Sherlock's tired of hiding and ever so tired of shadows.

"Irene would beg to differ," he tells John, shifting closer and bending his head down until their noses nearly brush.

John laughs, a short sound of disbelief. "I'm going to have to get used to this," he says, "Hearing things I never thought would come out of your mouth."

"I imagine so," Sherlock says, playing the coquette. It is an interesting role and an unaccustomed one, something he didn't need to put on with Irene in charge. He would develop it further, but John stops him with a kiss, for now. 

"Later," John says. "First we have to save the world."

"If we must," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes and heaving a facetious sigh. He leans down to pick up his discarded trousers from yesterday, fishing for Irene's ring. He slips it into the pocket of his jacket. Oddly comforting, feeling the edge of the metal resting below his ribs. 

John smirks and they clatter down the stairs to hail a cab and nobody takes a shot at them as they climb in and tell the cabbie to take them to Scotland Yard. Sherlock settles into the seat. London seats, London cab, London streets: how he missed them. He looks at John, who is gazing out the window, and feels a deep sense of satisfaction. All the way to his bones it goes, quieting the subtle vibration that has been telling him all these months that something is wrong. They're Holmes and Watson again, out on a case, and everything is just right.


	12. Chapter 12

The way to Lestrade's office is familiar, but Baynes comes along to show them up anyway. She is charmingly enthusiastic about the whole affair: she does not overburden Sherlock by attempting to explain ad nauseum her own methods, but she seems keen and clever. Sherlock appreciates a tactful fan. She does not try to get him to sign any copies of the photographs in which he is wearing that ridiculous hat, for one. 

A whisper that sounds like crackling flame begins when Sherlock walks onto the main floor. He is glad of Baynes' company at that point. She holds her head high and refuses to answer any questions, ushering them onward, making it clear that they are there legitimately and of their own free will. There is a considerable amount of staring going on, nonetheless. 

"You'd think Britain's finest would have something better to do," John murmurs, ducking his head. 

"I wouldn't," Sherlock murmurs back. "Although in my absence I'm sure they had to work twice as hard to 'solve' half as many crimes."

"If that," Baynes says. "They've got little discipline and no imagination. They don't even know what they're looking at half the time."

Sherlock approves of that, though he will, of course, withhold that judgement from her until such time as she proves worthy of it. He ignores the rest of them. Lestrade stands up as they come into his office. Donovan is there as well, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. 

"Sherlock," Lestrade says. "Good to know it wasn't all some strange dream." 

"Feels like a nightmare to me," Donovan mutters and then subsides. "Sorry, old habits."

"It's good to be back," Sherlock says. He will accept a tentative peace.

Lestrade holds up a digital recorder. "Mind if I record this for posterity?"

"Not a bit," Sherlock says. "I've nothing to hide." 

"Regarding the arrest of Sebastian Moran," Lestrade says into the recorder. "Interview with Sherlock Holmes."

"I was going around to the shop to get a bottle of wine and a takeaway," Sherlock begins. "I had been in the neighborhood of Baker Street most of the day, evaluating the situation. I needed to know whether it was safe for me to return to my former lodgings. On my way home, I noticed something strange in the flat across from 221B. I wasn't certain what exactly it was, but given that when I left said lodgings, the surrounding flats were well-stocked with a number of trained assassins, I suspected things were about to go very wrong. I left my shopping in the alleyway and nipped upstairs. The front door of the building was already unlatched."

"Shoddy work on the part of the estate agent, perhaps," Lestrade suggests.

"The lock had been forced," Sherlock says. "There were a number of very small scratches on the faceplate. It was a good job, but not good enough. He's not a specialist in locks, our Colonel." 

"No thought of criminal trespass?" Donovan asks, her voice slightly less acerbic than usual. 

"I think you'll find that my concern for the inhabitants of my lodgings was not misplaced," Sherlock says smoothly. "When I entered the flat, there were telltale marks that someone had been there, including a number of footprints in the dust. The footprints were fresh and clear. As I was trying to determine what exactly had captured my attention, I was alerted to the presence of someone else in the flat by a noise in the other room. I climbed into a handy wardrobe to conceal myself. The suspect entered the room. From the wardrobe, I watched him remove the weapon from a case. It was in pieces at the time. He assembled the weapon. The space between the wardrobe doors was quite narrow, but it seemed to me that he was aiming the weapon at my flat in 221B. Naturally I leapt out of the wardrobe and...."

He trails off. Donovan is snickering at him, and even Lestrade has his hand over his mouth. John's smile is even more lopsided than before, barely hanging on. Only Baynes is paying attention.

"What?" Sherlock demands, looking around at all of them. 

"Sorry, sorry, Sherlock," John says. "Did you say you leapt out of the wardrobe?"

"Yes, as previously stated, I had concealed myself by hiding in the wardrobe," Sherlock says, irritated. 

"So you," John coughs, "you leapt out of the wardrobe?"

"Have you all suddenly gone mad?" Sherlock asks. "As I've said twice now, I leapt out of the wardrobe and subdued the suspect by the expedient of a combination of martial arts techniques and, ah, gentle asphyxiation."

"A hell of a way to come out of the closet," Donovan murmurs.

"Sorry?" Sherlock says, glaring at her. "Problem?"

"It's a joke, Sherlock," Lestrade says patiently. 

"I don't appreciate that sort of bigotry," Sherlock says, his voice as icy as he can make it. 

Donovan makes a face. "Look, the mental image of you hurling yourself out of a wardrobe like some kind of lanky vampire is funny. It was just a joke. I mean you did actually jump out of a closet. That's all."

"I'll thank you to refrain from making jokes in the future," Sherlock snaps. 

"After what I've put up with from you," Donovan mumbles and leans back, crossing her arms. John gives her a sympathetic look. 

"It isn't as if you haven't made judgments about people," he points out quietly, leaning in close so that the others won't hear. "At least hers was funny."

"Was it?" Sherlock demands. 

"She's just right that it's a bit rich coming from you," John says. "That's all. You're not known for political correctness. And it isn't as if she could have known."

"That makes it worse," Sherlock says. "She was just trying to be hurtful. That shouldn't _be_ hurtful."

"Neither should a lot of other things," John says. "The world isn't fair, and you're not helping at the moment. Let it go for now."

"It wasn't even meant to be derogatory," Donovan says. "I couldn't give less of a damn about who you want to shag. It was just a joke."

"She's right, you know," John says aloud. "It wasn't actually saying anything either way. It was just the way you took it."

"I apologize," Sherlock says to her, "for not taking your comment in the apparently light-hearted spirit in which it was meant."

She shrugs. "Sensitive subject, obviously. I'll avoid it in the future."

"I found the sash in the wardrobe," Sherlock says, turning back to Lestrade. "I secured the suspect to the radiator. I secured the weapon. I examined the bullet hole and the impact of the shot on my flat. Then I sat down to wait."

"When did you text me?" Lestrade asks. "Before or after?"

"Before," Sherlock says. "After I entered the building, as I was climbing the stairs. I had reason to believe that the situation might escalate, given previous experience." 

Lestrade makes a note. "Did you know the identity of the suspect before you entered the building?"

"I knew nothing except that the flat ought to have been empty and wasn't," Sherlock tells him.

"On what basis did you identify the suspect?" Lestrade asks.

"On the basis of information I gathered during the investigation of various crimes," Sherlock says. "As a consultant detective, it's my business to know criminals. I know their crimes, I know their tastes, and when possible, I know their faces."

"Care to reveal any more of this information?" Lestrade leans back in his chair, tapping a pen on his desk. 

"My legal team advises me not to discuss the matter any further at this time." Sherlock smiles a bit smugly. "Or any other matter pertaining to the prosecution of the suspect."

"I see," Lestrade says. 

"I'm here as a courtesy to the London Police force," Sherlock says. "Obviously we'd all like this resolved as quickly as possible so we can get back to our normal lives."

"If such a thing exists at this point," murmurs John. 

"Moran had a whacking great bruise on his forehead," Baynes puts in. "How exactly did you, er, subdue him?"

Sherlock looks up at the wall. "After having applied force to the trachea to cut off the suspect's air supply and keep him from killing me, I used the butt of the gun to apply sufficient force to ensure that the suspect remained unconscious for the forseeable future. I did not judge the use of this force excessive given the suspect's reputation and tenacity."

"I see," she says. "Calculated, was it?"

"With exquisite care," Sherlock bites out. "I took no more precautions than the minimum to ensure my own safety." 

"Huh," Lestrade says. "Well. I think we've got what we wanted for now." He reaches out to turn off the digital recorder. "We'll be in touch."

"After this is a little more settled, you and Molly should come round for a drink," John offers. "Obviously not immediately. Might be strange, or a conflict of interest, or something."

"Yeah," Lestrade says, rearranging the bits and bobs on his desk. "One of these days, we'll take you up on that. You ought to drop by the morgue, Sherlock. She'd be well pleased to see you."

"Perhaps I shall," Sherlock says. "Inspector Baynes, Seargent Donovan. Feel free to join us in the event that we gather at the pub. Don't bring Anderson." It is out of character for him, but at least he has made the effort. Perhaps John will be content.

"Might," Donovan says, sounding like she'd rather say a few choice words.

"Thanks!" Baynes says. "Definitely." 

"Detective Inspector," Sherlock says, rising and smoothing his jacket. "I'm sure you'll be in touch."

"I'm sure I will," Lestrade says, looking slightly wistful. 

Baynes shows them out again. This time, the whispers are quieter, more sibilant, like snakes in dry grass.


	13. Chapter 13

The sight of St. Bart's gives Sherlock that frisson of home-feeling nearly as strongly as 221B does. John doesn't seem to feel the same way. He flinches a little, glancing at the roof line and then at the sidewalk. Sherlock leans his shoulder against John's, his fingers brushing the back of John's hand in subtle reassurance.

"Sorry," John mumbles. 

"It's all right," Sherlock tells him. "I'm sure it wasn't pleasant."

"It was hell," John says briefly.

Just for a moment, Sherlock slips his fingers between John's, twining their hands together. John's breathing steadies and his shoulders lose that tense unhappy line. Sherlock thanks Irene silently - she taught him a great deal about the power of touch and the judicious application thereof. He is glad that it works on John. Perhaps the situation will not be so difficult to manage after all. 

So far, he seems able to connect thought and action in a way that satisfies John's need to see him as an emotional being. Last night it was easier, with the wine and the darkness and the shock of his homecoming to overwhelm his usual defenses. Sherlock assumes this will all get more comfortable with time, as he develops the habit of expressing his impulses, of allowing himself to consider them in the first place. None of this is logical, after all; the warmth he feels when he looks at John follows a predictable pattern in terms of biology (the hit of dopamine for satisfaction, oxytocin inspiring intimacy and pair-bonding, phenethylamine for the fierce giddy rush), but the nexus for it, the wellspring of it all, remains intangible to his intuitive processes. 

There is no reason he should love John, and yet he does. At least, he presents with the symptoms of the condition called love. It is a difficult thing to accept. As far back as he can follow the chain of their acquaintance, he finds reasons for the strength of their friendship, but he cannot pinpoint the place where high regard turned into something more, on either side. He cannot say how or when or why he arrived at this crossroads in their relationship, and that frustrates him. But the evidence that presents itself says that the state is as real as any subjective condition can be, and so he loves John, and he reaches out; John relaxes, and Sherlock breathes a little easier himself; all of this is entirely different from loving Irene, but he can see how they are the same, underneath. He is tied to these two people with improbable bonds. The well-being of these wholly separate, fiercely independent individuals affects his well-being. Some things remain mysteries. The world is full of wonder.

He pushes open the door of the morgue and sees Molly's face brighten and there is a little wonder in that too, that after everything, he still has friends. 

"Sherlock!" she squeals. "John!" She runs up and flings her arms around Sherlock. He catches her and holds her very briefly, then lets go. She steps back, blushing and tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. She turns to John, who offers her a one-armed hug. They part a little awkwardly.

"Lestrade told us to come and say hello," Sherlock tells her. "And here we are. Hello."

"Where did you go? Where have you been?" Her face is rapt. 

"It's a very long story," Sherlock tells her. "It will require a considerable amount of time to tell, one day. Not today, I'm afraid."

"One day?" Molly says hopefully.

"One day," Sherlock promises. "How have things been in my absence?"

"Oh, all right," Molly says, fussing with this and that. "A bit dull, to be honest. Aside from someone stealing Moriarty's body and going through all my files, but that's been so long ago now. And nobody ever asked anything after that. You were right, to tell me that somebody would take him. I made six copies of everything and put them different places. I mean, of everything but him, obviously. Can't manage that." She fishes in a drawer and hands him a file. 

"Excellent," Sherlock says. "You were very brave, Molly. I was sorry to put you in a compromised position."

"Oh, it's all right," Molly says. "At least having the police around meant there was someone to talk to. Lonely down here, otherwise."

"No one requesting the odd spare part?" John asks. "No one coming in to beat the corpses or commandeer the equipment for his own purposes? Shame, really."

"It did make things interesting," Molly says. She leans on the edge of a table. "Now it's all, oi, Molly, autopsy this one and make it fast and wotcher, Hooper, here's another stiff. Bit lonely, really. They don't generally do much talking by the time they get to me."

"You seem extremely relaxed," Sherlock observes. "It seems that your intimate relationship with Detective Inspector Lestrade is doing wonders. I read a study that claimed that regular contact with semen can have an anti-depressant effect in women. Something about the hormones in the seminal fluid and the permeability of the vaginal mucous membrane. I confess it didn't really capture my attention - there are usually easier ways to discern the nature of the relations between two people than a pelvic examination."

Molly and John both look away. Molly is blushing rather furiously. Well, this time he hasn't broken her heart. Sherlock supposes that's an improvement from most people's point of view. He stalks around the room, mentally cataloguing all the changes. Molly takes care of the place, he admits.

"Thank you for that, Sherlock," John says. 

"I was merely trying to extend my good wishes to Molly," Sherlock protests, opening a cabinet.

"Yes," John says. "In the only way you know how."

"It's all right," Molly says quickly. "We are...happy. So it's all right."

"We're happy for you," John assures her. "Truly. Aren't we, Sherlock?" He looks pointedly at Sherlock, who nods, trying not to roll his eyes.

"We?" Molly asks, her eyes flickering between them.

"Ah," John says. "You might not know this, but Sherlock isn't terribly good at expressing those sorts of sentiments. I thought I'd convey them for the both of us."

"Oh," Molly says. "Thanks." She looks uncertain. She opens her mouth once or twice and shuts it again without saying anything. Sherlock isn't planning on confirming or denying her suspicions any time soon. Whatever she may think, it isn't any of her business. He has never been one to let his private life be anything but.

"Come 'round for a drink sometime," John says to her. "When all of this blows over, I mean." 

"Sorry, when what blows over?" Molly asks, uncrossing her arms. 

"Lestrade didn't tell you?" John asks.

"I didn't see him last night," Molly says, blushing again. "He said he had to stay late at work."

"I'm sure you'll read about it in the papers," Sherlock says. He takes a quick peek into the morgue fridge. Nothing of interest. "Someone tried to kill John."

Molly gasps. "What happened?"

"I prevented him," Sherlock says, prowling around the counter where the microscope is. It needs recalibrating, certainly. 

"Obviously," John says. "As you see." He gestures at himself and his lack of wounds. 

"That's a relief," Molly says. 

"Yes and no," Sherlock tells her. "On the plus side, our friend John retains his structural integrity, everyone goes home alive, et cetera. On the downside, after being home for less than a day, I have attracted the very personal attention of perhaps the second most dangerous man London has ever known, and yesterday's events have certainly done nothing to dispose him favorably towards me."

"Will you be all right?" Molly asks. The anxiety in her voice is nearly endearing.

"We'll soldier on," John assures her.

"We always do," Sherlock murmurs. He thinks back to the day he died and the days before, how Molly pledge her support without even knowing what was wrong. She has a mighty heart. He has not deserved her friendship or her high regard. Perhaps now is the time to earn it, since he is mending his ways. "Might I mention again, Molly, your invaluable help in my last adventure and how much I appreciate it."

"Oh, that's all right," Molly says. "I was glad to help. I mean, I was pleased you were alive at all." She glances at John. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you. I couldn't tell anyone."

"I understand," John says. 

"I really wanted to tell you," Molly says, painfully earnest. "I almost did, a hundred times. But I couldn't."

"It's all right," John reassures her. "I understand. I'm glad you didn't. It's all sorted now, anyway, or it will be."

"For all you knew, Molly, I _had_ ceased to exist," Sherlock says. "I've had plenty of near-misses over the last year. Hopefully, I won't have to call on your services again."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed. That you’ll be safe, I mean," she says cheerfully. "It is good to see you again, Sherlock. And you, John. Er. Don't be strangers?"

"We won't," Sherlock promises. He leans in and kisses her on the cheek. Another experiment in being human - it pleased her once before. She cups her hand over the place and looks at him with wide eyes. John glares briefly at him - _getting the girl's hopes up, just when she's involved with someone else and by the by, so are you, really, Sherlock_ \- and kisses her other cheek, just to balance things out. Molly stands there with both hands pressed against her cheeks. 

"Thank you for keeping my secrets," Sherlock says. "You have been more than worthy of my trust, and you must have been very clever indeed to escape any further scrutiny. I am at your service." He looks at his watch. "Catch you later?"

"No problem," Molly says faintly. "See you."

Sherlock strides out into the hallway, breathing in the familiar fragrance of the hospital until it fills his lungs. He loves this: the quarry run to ground, the incredible stimulation he receives from these investigations. It is a great satisfaction to have so many of the pieces of the puzzle already in hand. He can recreate a convincing picture of the crime and link it to several others without lifting a finger in further deduction. To keep him from getting bored, there is the novelty of this liaison with John, and his challenge from Irene to become a good man, whatever that might mean.

It is strange, so far, this new life of his. A new frontier, certainly. He was well satisfied with his old life, frankly, and the rewards of this uncharted path may not be worth the risks. He is compromising his integrity as a solitary being, linking himself so strongly to these people. Then again, he could not escape such bonds even when he made an effort to be cold and aloof. John and Mrs. Hudson still mattered to him, still made him vulnerable given the lengths he'd go to to protect them. Irene still mattered. Lestrade and Molly still mattered. Mycroft still mattered, though he kept himself out of trouble. It can hardly be worse, now that his weakness is common knowledge. He might as well embrace embracing them, for now.

"Where to?" John asks.

"I think home," Sherlock says. "Perhaps there will be lunch. This afternoon I'll make an appointment to speak to Mycroft's legal team."

"Really?" John says in amazement. "I thought you would go it on your own again. That was the impression you gave Mycroft."

Sherlock sighs. "He's my brother. I'm obligated to appear to be difficult. It would be a pity to waste all of this. He's right: they are much more likely to be able to present my insights and my evidence in a way that a jury will understand. The public ought to know what I know, but they're not nearly so likely to listen to me, especially as I'm supposed to be dead. Sherlock Holmes, the madman. Sherlock Holmes, the liar." 

"There is that," John muses. Sherlock shrugs. The accusations are, in fact, impossible to deny. He did fake his death. He is lucky that anyone will still speak to a man who ought to be a ghost.

They hail a cab and go back to the flat for lunch, except that John remembers halfway home that he hasn't got anything in, so they get the special of the day downstairs at Speedy's before they go up. Sherlock rifles through his library and his files, gathering up any scrap of evidence he has against Moriarty and Moran that he can add to the files in his mind. He didn't keep any solid artifacts from his year in exile. He did not want to risk carrying or storing anything physical. But he has dates and times, photographs and recordings. He has emails and texts. John sits back and watches and checks his email. Sherlock is glad that some things have not changed. John still understands that Sherlock needs his space for his peace of mind. 

They will have to make new guidelines, Sherlock thinks, if he has a case again. John is aware that Sherlock doesn't eat while he's working, but Sherlock is certain that his moratorium on consumption will need extend to physical acts. Sex has, so far, not been a significant distraction; he was only with Irene when he wasn't on the trail of Moran's syndicate. Baker Street is rather different - he plans to carry on living there while he's investigating, if he's investigating. They still have the two bedrooms, conveniently. He will not be able to stand any drain on his physical and mental resources. Even now, thinking about thinking about it is distracting him. Sherlock scowls to himself and turns his mind back to the matter at hand, shutting the door on the room in thoughts that contains John, flat on his back in the bed under a sheet that does little to conceal his compact body.

When he has everything that he compiled, Sherlock plays his violin for a few moments and then sits for half an hour in total silence with the instrument still tucked under his chin, making certain that every piece fits. Then he texts Mycroft, who sends around a car before Sherlock can change his mind. John comes along, nodding to the woman on her phone in the front seat. She blinks at him as if she doesn't recognize him. Sherlock snorts to himself. She isn't as important as all that; anyone who spends that much time on their phone is playing a game, not crafting le mot juste as pertains to national security. Mycroft probably told her to look busy and aloof. That's what he gets for hiring pretty young assistants. The men weren't any better, equally absorbed in the best of Top Ten Apps of the Week, thumbing their screens with exaggerated self-importance. At least they have simulated responsibility. 

The lawyers are numerous, cold, and efficient. They show no surprise at the notion of talking to a dead man, and seem to pass no judgment on him. Ironic. He hopes they'll do better with Moran.

"Your brother has given us some details of the case," one of the older men says. "We would be delighted to have you fill in the rest."

Sherlock calmly relates the saga of his lost year, leaving no stone unturned. He does not gloss over a single bruise he received or handed out, or any wrong turn he took finding the right path. He hands over a memory stick filled with pictures and recordings and miscellaneous files and lays out a stack of printed pictures as a sort of map cum timeline of his travels and his findings. They question him. He answers them. They question him again. They grill him about his relationship with Irene. He touches the ring in his pocket and tells them everything they want to know. She did try to blackmail an entire nation; it seems only fair that he not dissemble about the nature of any information she might have gotten from him, although he does not tell them where to find her. John narrows his eyes very slightly, listening. The lawyers take copious notes. They promise to examine every angle of his photographs, every second of his recordings, and every line of his files. After that, they push him out the door. The car is waiting. The woman is still on her phone. She must have attained quite a high level in her game, to be so committed to it.

"Feel better?" John asks when they're standing again in front of the door of 221B.

Sherlock lets out a breath. "Actually, yes."

"Good," John says. "Come on. We've got nothing in for dinner. Let's go to the shop. You can watch me shout at the chip and pin machine when it won't weigh my courgettes properly."

"A truly scintillating prospect," Sherlock says dryly. "Have I told you about the markets of Mumbai?"

"No," John says, "go on, then."

"A sophisticated haggler can obtain a great many impossible things," Sherlock says.

"So what did you settle for?" John asks. "A packet of biscuits and a bootleg DVD of _Mission: Impossible_?"

"Hah," Sherlock says, and they parade off down the street toward the shop, both of them keeping a weather eye out for any threats. There is always an ambitious subordinate, Sherlock thinks. Moran is only the first of many he will have to fend off. Down and down and down the ranks he will go, until one day he is pursued by a temporary worker from the offices of someone who once bowed to the pressure of the syndicate. But down the ranks he will go, one by one, until John is safe and Irene is safe and Mrs. Hudson is safe and he can once more enjoy, in peace, the comfort of his sofa in his flat on Baker Street. He will not rest. He will not surrender. And he most certainly will not allow John to purchase any barbeque-flavored crisps, no matter what habits John might have acquired in Sherlock's absence. A man must have standards, after all.


	14. Chapter 14

"So," John says after they've had dinner - pasta with vegetables and some kind of sauce from a packet, but sustaining enough - "how about a drink?"

They open a bottle of port that John got for some birthday or another and slump in their chairs. Sherlock savors again the way the chair _fits_ him. He missed this place: his books, his clothes, the way when he reaches into the fridge, the milk is right where it ought to be. The flat seems to hold him snugly, the space of it shaped to his mind and his body. He knows the way the mirror reflects the light back into the room. The pattern in the wallpaper soothes his mind, with its curves and florets and repetitions. He and John sip at their port in companionable silence. Sherlock touches the toe of his shoe to the toe of John's, tapping lightly. He has seen John with his girlfriends and knows John likes the reassurance of casual touch. John smiles briefly at him, but there's a crease between his eyebrows. 

Sherlock puts down his glass and picks up the violin and plays something soft and sweet and wistful. It is, he realizes a few moments later, his song for Irene, arranged as a lullaby. He leans into the music, closing his eyes. The song grows, matures, becomes rich. Sherlock puts their time together into it, their lazy mornings and their languorous evenings, and the wistful quality gains a dimension of satisfaction without losing its slight sense of yearning. When the music has said everything it needs to say, he opens his eyes, smiling faintly.

John clears his throat. "You and Irene."

"Problem?" Sherlock says. It does not take a genius to see that John is troubled. Sherlock is fairly certain that if humans could actually generate their own personal storm clouds, John would be sitting under quite the little shower.

"Nothing," John says. 

"Shall I guess?" Sherlock says. "'I'm fine'."

"I _am_ fine," John says.

"You're clearly not," Sherlock says mildly. 

"Well, would you be, if you had to sit there for hours listening to the frankly rather intimate details of my previous relationships?" John demands. 

"Yes," Sherlock says after a moment of consideration.

"Of course you would," John mutters. "Why did I even ask."

"That's an excellent question," Sherlock says. "Look, if it's going to be a problem...."

"If it's going to be a problem, what?" John asks. "We'll pretend last night never happened?"

"Unlikely," Sherlock says. "We're both well aware that it happened. Honestly, I'm surprised at your reaction. You practically threw us at each other. All I heard for months was Irene this and Irene that and oh, isn't she texting you an awful lot, maybe you ought to text her back once in a while. You shouted at her in a warehouse about it. You implied we ought to have children together. I think it rather took her aback. You seemed so serious about the possibility of our having an affair."

"I was," John says. "The two of you were unbearable. For future reference, Sherlock, that level of flirting makes the other people in the room uncomfortable. It was like you were undressing each other with words."

"But?" Sherlock asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Some things ought to be private," John insists.

"You didn't have to listen," Sherlock tells him. "You could have left the room if it bothered you."

"I couldn't show if it bothered me, now could I?" John says. "Would have looked a bit weird, bringing your boyfriend to your testimony. Everyone's used to me being your keeper, maybe, but the rest was only rumors before. And it shouldn't bother me, I shouldn't care."

"Yes," Sherlock says. "If this had happened before, you would have slapped me on the back and congratulated me on graduating into the world of men, I think. Much as you were last night at dinner, need I remind you."

"That was before," John says.

"And now?"

"Now it's different," John says. "Look, I didn't say it made sense! But obviously it's different now. Isn't it?"

They stare at each other.

"I'm not good at this," Sherlock says slowly. "I'm better at some bits than I used to be, but I'm not good at the others. You will have to have patience with me, John."

John laughs a little bitterly. "As if I know what I'm doing."

"You've had quite a number of relationships," Sherlock points out. 

"With women," John corrects. "Always with women."

"Is this really so different?" Sherlock asks.

John lets out a long breath and scrubs his hands over his face. "I don't know. I don't know if it's women or if it's you, Sherlock. Because you're, well, _you_ and I don't always know what you're thinking, and I don't have any way to know what you're thinking about this. I don't have any frame of reference like I do for your usual smartass remarks about social situations."

"I was pleased," Sherlock says. "It seemed as if things were going well. We spent an enjoyable night. You assured me you had no regrets."

"I didn't," John says. "I don't. Only I don't know where this is going."

"Where would it go?" Sherlock asks.

"Here," John says. He gestures at nothing. "Nowhere. Somewhere."

"Were you hoping to marry one of those women?" Sherlock asks. "Settle down, have a few kids, open your own practice? Don't let this hold you back from that ambition, if that's what you want."

"I don't know that either," John says, frustrated. "It was something to do. I was lonely. They were good company. I hadn't got that far with any of them."

Sherlock studies him for a long moment. "I think," he says slowly, as John looks up at him, "that 'here' is where our relationship had been going. I think perhaps that this is a terminal, not a starting point." 

"Ah," John says. "Wonderful. I'm in a terminal relationship with a madman."

"I had certain feelings for you before," Sherlock says. "Poorly expressed and largely platonic, perhaps, but feelings nonetheless. I don't have many feelings for people. Let us then assume that that puts you in an elevated position in what one might term my heart. And you must have had certain similar feelings for me, otherwise you would have left long ago like any sane person would have done. We certainly meant a great deal to each other."

"Granted," John says warily.

"Having lived together for a number of months, we developed a brand of somewhat codependent intimacy," Sherlock says. 

"Somewhat?" John interrupts him. Sherlock moves on.

"This intimacy may have been misinterpreted by those around us for something romantic when, at the time, it was not, but it still tied us to each other. The strength of our connection was the subject of many remarks by your girlfriends, for instance." Sherlock steeples his fingers.

"Sherlock, are you deducing our relationship?" John asks incredulously.

"The emotional turmoil generated by the evident severing of that connection during my absence and the subsequent relief precipitated by our reunion may have been the catalyst for the transformation of platonic feelings into romantic, or at least sexual feelings," Sherlock muses. "I did miss you desperately, John. It wasn't at all the same without you. I missed my sounding board, of course, but I also missed my friend."

"Yeah, well," John says, looking at his hands on his knees. "Likewise. At least you knew I was alive."

"Disbelief requires evidence to resolve it," Sherlock says. "We want to touch the things we find difficult to believe in. We want to weigh them in our hands and ascertain their reality with our own senses. No wonder, then, that we felt the urge to take physical comfort in each other."

"You know how to take the romance out of anything," John tells him. 

"I thought it was fairly romantic," Sherlock says. "Objectively speaking."

"Sherlock, there is no objectivity in romance," John says, smiling just a little. Sherlock feels a little thrill of triumph. "There's no scale to quantify roses and hearts."

"We carry a romantic ideal," Sherlock insists. "Roses, for instance. Why not asphodel? Or heather? Or pansies?"

"Pansies?" John scoffs. "Much too cheerful, not nearly enough mystery. A pansy is like the neighbor girl who runs the chip shop. She's all smiles and you're fond of her in your way, but there's nothing else to it. A rose is more like, well, Irene, all grace and you know, poise and unexpected layers. That's romance, the finding out." 

"And there you are," Sherlock says. "There were certainly layers last night. Quantifiably romantic."

"Rubbish," John says cheerfully. "Utter bollocks. I'm amazed you ever solved a crime in your life. You're a fraud, Sherlock Holmes."

"I am mysterious," Sherlock proclaims. "Like the rose."

"Oh God," John says, leaning back in his chair. "This is the end. You've officially lost it."

They grin at each other. "A rose indeed," says John. "Jesus. You are the utter limit." 

"Do you know why I began things with Irene?" Sherlock asks suddenly. "Why I carried them into the realm of the physical?" He has been spilling his secrets all day; the confessional mood has taken him. 

"No," John says, vaguely stormy again. "I'm going to find out anyway, I suspect. Did it have something to do with the fact that you were clearly mad for each other, in your own twisted ways? Or was it because I said one too many things about your bloody text tone?"

"I wanted to be good at the sort of things that people do in bed," Sherlock tells him. "In case I came back and those were the things you wanted to do. There was the challenge of it, too, the last puzzle, but on the whole, I took it up in case I had misinterpreted things and this was what you wanted after all."

"It didn't hurt that she's utterly gorgeous," John mutters.

"She has a pleasing symmetry," Sherlock says. That isn't really giving her enough credit and they both know it, but perhaps it wounds John less. John rolls his eyes. "All right," Sherlock relents, "she is rather astoundingly beautiful. And I am quite fond of her, for all her faults. But if it hadn't been for the thought of you, the thought of one day doing those sorts of things with you, I wouldn't have done it. I told her so. That's one of the reasons she turned me out and sent me home." He pauses. "There are ways in which she is much cleverer than I am."

John is quiet for a long moment. Sherlock waits, listening to the traffic outside. He watches John: the little crease between John's brows, the twitch at the corner of John's mouth as he thinks. 

"This terrifies me," John says at last. "Not because it's wrong to be attracted to men, but I've never _been_ attracted to men. It's a change. I don't give a damn what other people think, but it's as if...as if my whole equilibrium has shifted. Even if it's just you, not all men, it's not the same as it was before. I'm not the same as I was."

"It's all right," Sherlock says. "I thought you should know."

"There's no point in going back now," John says practically. "Nothing changes if we don't talk about this, except that we're both miserable. Well, at least I'm miserable. You're Sherlock Holmes, to whom human feeling and human weakness are anathema."

"I wouldn't be giddy," Sherlock tells him. "I do have my vulnerabilities. You happen to be one of them."

John nods. "And nothing changes if we don't take each other's clothes off, except that I remember the time we did, and how happy we were, and how stupid it was to break it off just because I was afraid."

"I'm afraid," Sherlock offers. "If that helps. But I was afraid of her as well."

"Of course you were," John says, as if it's a fact. "She's completely terrifying. That's what makes it even better. God, I bet she was magnificent in bed." He is momentarily lost in reverie. Sherlock considers the dreamy look on John's face and waits, smirking a little indulgently. John shakes his head. "Sorry. She's just. Well. You understand, surely."

"I think perhaps there are still some things I don't understand about the fairer sex," Sherlock says. "And sex in general, if it comes to that."

"Maybe we can work on them together," John says, smiling at Sherlock. 

Sherlock smiles back. "I think there's a high probability."

"Come on," John says, jerking his head toward the bedroom. "Let's get some rest, Sherlock."

"Together?" Sherlock asks. 

"Yeah," John says. "You're right. I do want to touch you. I do want you near so I can be sure you haven't disappeared again. Better an arm's length away than across the whole flat." 

"Better across the flat than across the globe," Sherlock says.

"True enough," John agrees. "If I need a moment, I'll send you packing back to your room."

"Promise?" Sherlock asks. 

"Promise," John says, holding out his hand. "Now get out of that chair so I can take you to bed already. And don't bring the bloody violin."

Sherlock smirks.

\+ + + +

The bedroom is full of the right number of shadows and soft light to put Sherlock's mind at ease. This time, they undress each other slowly. It is slightly alarming, how immediately this physicality dulls his mental faculties, but he has nothing to investigate at the moment except the numerous ways to make John sigh with pleasure. John has his own elegant symmetry, Sherlock notes, highlighted by the artful irregularity of his scars. He has not been eating well, this past year and he is slightly more gaunt than Sherlock would like. From the slightly concerned noises John makes as he runs his hands over Sherlock's ribs, Sherlock is certain that John feels the same. It is oddly pleasant, to be so concerned for the welfare of another. It takes him out of his own circuitous thoughts for a while, as if he has stepped into the verdant garden of his mind palace and everything is blooming and riotously lovely.

He takes his time, feeling his way over the planes and angles of John's muscles and bones with the same delicate precision he would use to gauge the tumblers of a lock, and John reveals himself the same way a complicated lock opens, in stages that reveal unguessed riches. He finds ticklish places that make John shiver and protest and other places that make John shiver in a different way entirely. He breathes against John's earlobe, which makes John tip his head away, but then he catches it gently between his teeth and John goes entirely still with a little groan.

As he is touching John, John is touching him, which is very nice indeed. Sherlock knows a great deal about his body now, after Irene's assiduous mapping, but John's touch is different. His fingers are broader, blunter, rougher. His hands explore Sherlock's body tentatively, nothing like Irene's confident caresses, but he's clearly expert at handling the anatomy. Sherlock's head rolls loosely on his neck as John's fingers curl around his cock. It's easier, as it was with Irene, to think in the slang terms rather than his accustomed formal language; this experience has nothing clinical about it. John's hand slides up and down as his other hand strokes the muscles of Sherlock's back (latissimus dorsi, trapezius, rhomboid, names as familiar to John as they are to Sherlock). Sherlock kneads at John's shoulders, unconsciously falling into the same rhythm that John's fingers are keeping. John leans his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. 

"This is good," Sherlock murmurs, in case John needs feedback.

"I hope so," John says. "Not sure I'm quite ready to, ah, use my mouth yet. Always been clever with my hands, though."

"Take all the time you need," Sherlock says. It is easy to be generous to John, especially about this; it is the grace note of their relationship, glorious but omissible, if it becomes too much to handle. "It's a bit difficult, really. Hard to breathe."

John chuckles against Sherlock's skin. "Never change, Sherlock."

"I don't think you want me to promise that," Sherlock says. "If I hadn't changed, we wouldn't be here. Dying can be so liberating."

"You're not helping the mood," John says, and he reaches up with the hand on Sherlock's back and tips Sherlock's head down for a prolonged kiss. Sherlock gives himself over to the sensation of it, to John's lips under his and John's tongue against his and the sharp edges of John's teeth amid all the softness of the rest. It is a playful, charged battle, this kiss. Sherlock shoves back at John's tongue with his own and uses his hips to push John as well. John's fingers uncurl from around Sherlock's cock as they scuffle, but the playful wrestling is just as enjoyable. They have only fought the once, he and John, in the alley before he went to meet Irene. He has not had the occasion to match his body and his cunning against John's. John has certain advantages: his center of gravity is lower, his training was professional in nature in contrast to Sherlock's extensive but fairly amateur efforts, and he is utterly ruthless. John takes every opening that Sherlock gives him and gives no quarter. Sherlock is completely delighted when John pins him down on the bed and holds him there. 

"You're not going anywhere," John says roughly. "Not ever again. You're not leaving me alone."

They are both breathing hard. John glares at Sherlock and then drops his mouth to Sherlock's in a hungry kiss, one that takes the remaining breath from Sherlock's lungs. The hot crackling of desire begins at Sherlock's toes and washes up his body, setting them both aflame wherever their skin touches. He groans at the touch of John's hand, slippery again with lubricant, stroking every sensitive spot Sherlock has between his knees and his hips with an unerring instinct. Sherlock reaches out in turn. John grunts and braces himself with both arms as Sherlock wraps his fingers around John's cock. He drops his hips closer to Sherlock's, thrusting into Sherlock's hand, the pressure of it creating just the right friction on all the right parts of Sherlock's anatomy. 

Sherlock's back arches, an involuntary contraction: he wants to be closer to John. He _has_ to be closer to John. He has to press closer and closer to John, his hips moving faster and faster, as John presses closer to him in turn. He is taken over by this, this experience he is sharing with John, the two of them collaborating the way that he and Irene did not - she was always in charge, channeling this strange force that has commandeered his body and his mind. But John is just as caught up as Sherlock is: he can see the wild look in John's eyes and he can feel the helpless way John trembles and shakes as he shoves his body closer to Sherlock's. 

"It's all right," Sherlock whispers with his last ounce of control. "I'll be with you." Then the flames take him, and he's out of his mind, held together only by the bracket of John's strong arms. He keeps his fingers wrapped around John's cock and squeezes John's ass with his other hand, holding John close until John yelps, reaching his own orgasm, his body jerking in Sherlock's grasp. Sherlock can tell that John's arms won't hold him up much longer, but John manages to collapse beside Sherlock instead of on top of them, their legs twined together but nobody's limbs trapped. A definite improvement, Sherlock thinks, if no less sticky than before. He calculates, idly, how long this steep curve of increasing enjoyment can endure before it levels off. Two data points is really not enough for an accurate plotting, but so far, it is exponentially better and better. Honestly, even if it were only ever this good, it might be worth it.

"Stop thinking so loudly," John mumbles into the pillow. "Sherlock. Now is not the time for thinking. Now is the time for sleeping."

"Definitely different," Sherlock says, yawning. "On the one hand, this takes considerably less time. On the other hand, the possibility of multi-orgasmic intercourse afforded a number of additional possibilities."

"Shut up," John says, letting his hand fall across Sherlock's mouth. His palm is sweaty. Sherlock kisses it thoughtfully. It is very difficult to keep his eyes open. Another downside: sex incapacitates him, rendering him effectively unconscious, although he has to admit it's a much less painful method than the one he used on Moran. But John's contented sprawl and the faint snore as he tries to breathe through a face full of down alternative are positives, however odd that may seem when Sherlock's perception is not tinted by post-coital bliss.

Tomorrow he'll make John wash the sheets. They were due for it anyway. Clean sheets to go with his fresh start. Tomorrow he'll walk in the world again - he'll be seen, he'll be photographed, he'll give statements, and he'll behave just exactly as Mycroft's legal team instructs him to, at least until the trial is concluded. He won't endanger John or his other friends again; he certainly won't risk himself. Sherlock likes being alive much more than he liked being a ghost in the shadows, however satisfying it was to visit vengeance from beyond the supposed grave on the agents of his enemy. He has more to live for now than the glory of the puzzle, more to keep his interest piqued. Humanity has unexpected depths after all.

Sherlock falls asleep smiling to himself at the thought of the rich inner lives of all the predictable, simple minds he's encountered. No wonder they all believed they would escape. No wonder they all believed they were special. Perhaps they are, in their small way.


	15. Chapter 15

Unsurprisingly, there are photographers camped around the front door of 221B when Sherlock wakes in the morning. He can hear them chatting; scraps of conversation drift in through the open window with the breeze. He smirks to himself and rolls out of bed, keeping away from the window. When John stumbles in, yawning, Sherlock has showered and made coffee and is reading the newspaper and eating toast.

"Morning," John says, slumping into a chair and pouring himself a cup of coffee. 

"Morning," Sherlock says cheerfully. He rattles the pages of the paper. "It seems we've caused quite the stir."

"Honestly, I didn't miss the fuss," John says. "The novelty wears off fast. They were all after me after your scene at the hospital. I got a bit abrupt with them."

"Good," Sherlock says. "Damned vultures, most of them." 

"They'll either want to crucify you or hail your return as some sort of new age of man, you know," John says, getting up to put bread in the toaster.

"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "It will be an interesting balancing act. Either way, they'll sell a lot of papers."

"Nobody can say you aren't good for business," John mutters. He yawns again. "I have to go in to the hospital today. Will you be all right on your own?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him and sips at his coffee.

"No, you're right, stupid question," John says. "Of course you'll be all right. I'm the one who falls apart."

"Give yourself a little credit," Sherlock says. "You survived."

"John Watson, professional survivor," John says. "That'll look good on my CV."

"Better than the alternative," Sherlock points out.

John squints at him. "You really are obscenely cheery this morning."

"I had a good night," Sherlock says, smirking. "You?"

"It was a bit of all right," John says, buttering his toast. He ducks his head and smiles. "Funny old world, this."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees. 

"Morning, boys!" Mrs. Hudson trills. 

"Morning, Mrs. H," John says, yawning. 

"You look a little tired," she tells them, checking the fridge. "Not staying up too late, I hope?"

"Of course not," Sherlock says with his nose in the paper.

"That's good," she says. "Especially for our good doctor. Can't treat the sick when you're falling asleep on your feet, can you?"

"You're right," John says, casting a look at Sherlock. "I'll put myself to bed earlier tonight. Got to take care of my health." 

"That sounds nice," she says. Her busy hands tidy up the cups on the counter. 

"Mmm," says Sherlock. He raises an eyebrow at John. Mrs. Hudson pays no attention.

"Lot of people outside, Sherlock," she says dubiously. "What have you gone and started this time?"

"Nothing," Sherlock says. "I'm ending it."

"Well, I hope so," she says. "I went out this morning for a bit of milk and I was nearly trampled."

"Don't worry," Sherlock says warmly. "Soon enough it will all be normal again."

"That'll be nice," she says. "I'm off to see Mrs. Turner next door. Did you know, her niece has a new baby. She has the most adorable photographs."

"Enjoy your visit," John tells her. 

They finish up breakfast and John showers and shaves while Sherlock scours every old paper they've got in the flat, trying to brush up and reconnect himself to the pulse of the city. John stops and leans in for a quick kiss before he goes and Sherlock obliges him, casual and distracted and comfortable, and it's nice. Through the window, he hears John say a few low angry words to the photographers, who back off. Sherlock smiles to himself. 

The press offers him no such courtesy, of course, when he goes out, but he stands there for five minutes or so and patiently answers questions before the car pulls up. Clever Mycroft. Sherlock bids them all adieu and climbs into the back seat, where the woman is still on her phone. And he thought he was obsessed. 

"Where are we going?" he asks.

"You've been asked for," she says, and will say nothing else. The house they pull up to is very old indeed, and the family even older. A scandal, they say, and thank God he's alive to save them from the disgrace of it all. He is certain that these are not the people who have been keeping the faith, marking their vigil with portraits graffitied on walls and tags under bridges, but it is good to know that when the need is great enough, he will still be summoned. It is a simple enough matter. He tells John about it when he gets home. John shakes his head.

"Fickle people," he says. 

"People have never failed to avail themselves of all available resources," Sherlock points out. "However distasteful."

"I'll write it up for the blog," John says. "A nice little welcome-home for you, though. Imagine, trying to conceal your sister's death just because you wanted to win a horse race."

"Desperate debts call for desperate measures," Sherlock says calmly. "At least the others knew who to ask for, when they want their mysteries solved."

"Are you ready for this?" John asks, turning in his chair.

"I had better be," Sherlock tells him. 

"Yes, you better had," John says. He looks Sherlock over with a trained eye. "It's good though, that they wanted you."

"Yes," Sherlock says. "They wanted me and they got me. Dying must have done wonders for my reputation - as I recall, we had very few commissions in the weeks before, despite the media fervor. And I have my stalwart blogger to tell the tale of my success. They must know by now the strength of your character."

"Until someone finds out we're together," John says. "That'll make me look biased."

"Tell them I'm terrible in bed," Sherlock suggests. "They'll enjoy that. They'll believe it, and then you won't look biased, you'll look like a martyr."

"Objectively..." John begins and then winks at Sherlock. Sherlock clears his throat and ignores John pointedly, his cheeks flushing a little. John grins. "It's so easy sometimes."

"You have a special insight," Sherlock reminds him. "Not everyone can fluster me so easily."

"You're not that much different from the rest of us," John says. "You put on your trousers one leg at a time like everyone else. I've got proof, now."

"Please don't put that on the blog," Sherlock says facetiously. "It will utterly destroy my reputation."

"Some things are yours and mine alone," John says, smiling at him.

For days and days there are photographers on their front step every morning. For days and days, Sherlock is patient and reasonable, though the act strains him. He tells the press that his death was a bit of a misunderstanding, that he was revived by skilled hands and he's been in a witness protection program of a sort since, and isn't it a good thing too, given that as soon as he is seen, he and his flatmate are attacked. He refrains from commenting on the Moriarty affair, promising that in time, all will be revealed. In the mornings, when he examines the newspaper, his photograph is always there, somewhere, or at least a column inch discussing his exploits. He is accosted in the shop by Sherlock faithfuls and Sherlock despisers who want to declare their devotion or to denounce him loudly. Sherlock is exquisitely polite, which is a great strain; John incentivizes this tact with the promise of caresses. But eventually it all blows over, and Sherlock gets no more than nods and scowls. 

They fall into an easy routine: John goes to work a few days a week, Mrs. Hudson flutters in and out, and Sherlock waits for cases to roll in and talks to Mycroft's lawyers whenever they want him. It's an extremely tedious process, all the legal nonsense, but they assure him that there is absolutely no chance, under their direction, that the fiasco of the previous case will be repeated. The jury will be kept in a secured facility. The judge will be unimpeachable. The finest minds that the nation's security force has to offer will be working on the conundrum of how to protect the trial from being influenced by the criminals standing in the box, facing their accusations. The case against Moran will be airtight, certainly - the evidence gleaned from the modified gun by Scotland Yard's most discerning forensics team (excluding Anderson, Sherlock presumes) is enough to link Moran to several other murders. 

Sherlock's testimony will have to be woven skillfully into the rest of the case as it is presented, but his files, the lawyers tell him, are an excellent base on which to build. Mycroft comes in once or twice to drop hints about how many of Moriarty's old network he's picked up on the basis of Sherlock's little clues - when the cat's away, the mice that don't play at becoming the new cat try to bolt down their holes, but Mycroft's people were waiting for them. Several will turn Queen's Evidence in return for some small reduction to their sentences, perhaps only one or two life terms rather than six or seven. Mycroft's lawyers pledge most faithfully to tie Moran to all the rest of them, though each case will have to be prosecuted separately. The future is a yawning abyss of legal hell that Sherlock feels he will never escape. At least some justice will be served. At least the people of the world can sleep a little easier nights, with increasing numbers of Moriarty's former cohorts tucked away in prison.

The days that Sherlock has cases, he sleeps in his own proper bedroom. The sight of the narrow headboard and the four stark walls still gives him a whiff of Irene's perfume in the back of his nose, olfactory hallucinations inspired by memorable events, but it's less distracting than the warm restlessness of John's body. Though Sherlock finds he is measurably more even-tempered on the mornings after nights he spends with John, engaged in various enjoyable physical acts, the calm that inspires dulls the keen edge of his intellect. John accepts all of this as normal, or, as he says, Sherlock-normal. 

Sherlock brings John along on his cases when he can. John is working part-time at the hospital, enough to supplement his pension. Sherlock's cases are bringing in a little money, and John's blog garners them a bit as well, enough to keep the pantry full. There aren't as many cases as there were before - people still turn away when they see Sherlock, and he receives as much angry correspondence as he does fan mail - but he has some choice morsels nonetheless.

"Did you write up the one where we foiled that fellow's plot to get the man with the unusual name out of his house so that he could burgle the place?" Sherlock asks, stretched out on the sofa. There's nowhere in the world as comfortable as his sofa.

"You could just read the blog," John suggests.

"Tedious," Sherlock dismisses. "Your flair for the dramatic and the sensational is too much to bear. You seem to have a desire to dazzle the masses by making what is simple deduction appear to be some kind of magic. It's disingenuous."

"Thanks very much," John says.

"What about the horse of a different color?" Sherlock asks. "Or the woman who inherited the Agra treasure? I thought she was flirting with you."

"She _was_ flirting with me," John murmurs. "She asked me out, as a matter of fact. After it was all over."

"And what did you say?" Sherlock asks with feigned interest.

John shakes his head. "I turned her down, with regrets."

"Pity," Sherlock says. "You might have made a match of it."

"Missed connection," John says, hunting and pecking at his keyboard. "We all make our choices."

"All for the best," Sherlock says. "Look at her involvement with that museum, giving away the profits from those jewels to the dispossessed. Some people are married to their work. You're lucky to have escaped that misery."

John has a genuine laugh at that.

"Ah, Sherlock," he says. "What shall I do with you?"

"God only knows," Sherlock murmurs.

He had, of course, planted a surveillance device in Irene's apartment before he left. Now and again, when John is asleep or out of the house, he checks the feed. It isn't that he wants to hide this from John, precisely. He feels differently about Irene. There are things they shared between them that are private, that words can't describe. So he waits to see if his bug can bring her back to him for a moment, if she did indeed leave it for the sake of love. She found it, of course: the feed is partially obscured by a cartoon of a winking face, but now and again he catches a glimpse of her. Once, she leans in and blows a kiss, though she can't possibly know he's watching at that moment. Sherlock smiles to himself and closes the computer.

Happiness is a strange burden to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an oblique mention of Mary Morstan here - if you're familiar enough with the canon to know and care who she is, I'm sure you caught it. I'm very fond of Mary myself, but there wasn't a place for her in this story. Rest assured I wasn't trying to write her off - I thought it would be kinder to mention her than not. We all have to make choices about these things.


	16. Chapter 16

The weeks leading up to the trial are oddly familiar. The media is whipping the public into a frenzy: "Trial of the Century" is thrown about again, and there are rumors of phone hacking of persons involved with the case, but it turns out to be nothing more than manufactured panic. The jury is safe and anonymous, sequestered in a facility much less luxurious than the hotel of last time, but much less vulnerable to attacks. Sherlock paces back and forth, wearing a track through the rug. 

"It'll all turn out for the best," John reassures him.

"Perhaps," is all Sherlock will say. He doesn't want to snap at John. John doesn't deserve it. He's genuinely trying to help. It is not in Sherlock's nature to crave or accept that kind of aid. It is difficult to be kind in return for John's kindness. Sherlock would rather box or wrap himself up in an experiment or smoke until his lungs ache. He wants to go out in the dark and do something desperate and dangerous. Instead, he will let John distract him and try to soothe him. John will feel needed, which will please him. Sherlock is startled by the lengths he is willing to go to to keep the peace in his domestic life, now that he has one. Some days he is hard-pressed to recognize himself. He has even put on four pounds. Now his shirts pull across his stomach as well as his chest.

Mycroft drops by a few times a week, looking anxious in his tweedy way. Sherlock promises over and over to follow the script and heed the advice of the lawyers. 

"Tell me again," Mycroft says. "I want your word that you'll behave." It is a rainy day, a dreary day. Sherlock fidgets in his chair. The trial begins in three days. The whole city is tied in knots again and he is at the center of it. Again. Sherlock sighs. He has escaped so many tighter scrapes. He wishes for a moment that he had escaped this one.

"Believe me when I say I want the lot of them put away nearly as much as you do," he tells Mycroft. 

"I have my reasons to be cautious," Mycroft reminds him.

"I've seen the error of my ways," Sherlock insists.

"I deduce from the smartaleck tone to your voice that your brother must be here," John says, coming up there stairs. "That and meeting Mrs. Hudson on the stairs with her best company tea tray. Hello, Mycroft. How's the government?"

"Fine, thank you, John," Mycroft says, carefully avoiding the scattered drops from John's wet coat. "How are things at the hospital?"

John shrugs. "Neverending supply of sick people. The usual."

"I was just reminding Sherlock about the paramount importance of his testimony in this case," Mycroft says. 

"I'm fairly certain we're all clear on that now," John says, hanging up his things. 

"Frankly, I'm surprised no one's tried to prevent me from giving that testimony," Sherlock muses. "I would have expected more of an effort."

"For one thing, we have quite a few of those would-be meddlers in custody already," Mycroft points out. "For another, your security has been drastically increased. I've had to issue hazard pay and overtime for my people for seven separate attempts on the two of you or these premises."

"Seven?!" John asks incredulously.

"I must be losing my touch," Sherlock says. "That afternoon by the bakery."

"Yes," Mycroft says.

"Ah, the time on the train and then the cab with the electrical fault," Sherlock says.

Mycroft just inclines his head and drinks his tea.

"At the bed and breakfast in Sussex," John says suddenly.

"Well caught," Mycroft tells him.

"Damn," Sherlock says. "The friendly new neighbor who seemed a little too interested in our fascinating wallpaper. And that still leaves two. Your people must be very good."

"Indeed," Mycroft tells him. "We have gone to great efforts to protect you with a minimum of disruption to your life. I hope that you remember to respect that effort."

"I will be there," Sherlock says stiffly. "I will say my lines like an obedient child. Believe me when I say I have a great deal at stake in this. I won't endanger that."

"Thank God," Mycroft says. "I must say, if I'd known that a physical relationship would make you so biddable, I would have pushed Irene at you years earlier."

Sherlock and John both sputter a bit. Mycroft smiles.

"I'll take my leave," he says, fetching his umbrella. "I'll see you tomorrow, boys."

"I look forward to it," growls Sherlock. 

"He must like us," John says when Mycroft is gone. "He called us boys instead of gentlemen."

"How charming, since we're neither," Sherlock says, flinging himself onto the sofa.

"I like seeing the two of you together," John tells him. "It makes you more and less unbearable at the same time."

"You have a sibling," Sherlock says, staring into space. "Surely you understand my frustration."

"Harry and I have our differences," John admits, "but not like you and Mycroft. No, I think the Holmes brothers are a very special case. Fortunately. I'm not certain the world could survive any more of you. I'm not certain it could survive without you, either, but we don't need any extra running around."

"Probably not," Sherlock agrees. 

"Come on," John says abruptly. "We're going out."

"I don't want to go out," Sherlock says, distant.

"I don't care," John tells him. "You have to get out of this flat before you go mad. You've turned down every case for the last week and a half, you keep looming out of shadows at Mrs. Hudson, and you're starting to twitch. We're going out. Dinner and a movie, what do you think?"

"Sounds hideous," Sherlock says, but he allows John to coax him out of the building. He has never really understood the ritual of dating, even after all of this. They see a frankly unmemorable film and then go out for a quite decent meal, and at the end of it, he does feel a little better, despite his unanswered questions about the plausibility of the film's narrative. John takes Sherlock's hand as they walk down the street; he has made a remarkable adjustment in the space of a few months. Both of them have, Sherlock supposes. He had a longer run-up to it, but he needed one. Now he is very nearly comfortable to be holding someone's hand. It is a public announcement of things he prefers to keep private, a betrayal of his life's habits, but it is also nice in its way. John's touch still activates the same cascade of mood-buoying hormones that it did at the beginning. Sherlock takes comfort in that.

The flat seems brighter and cleaner somehow when they get back. Sherlock takes a deep breath.

"It's all right," John murmurs, rubbing Sherlock's back. Sherlock accepts the caress with a slight effort. "It'll be over soon."

"What will I do with myself?" Sherlock asks the air.

"The same things you've always done," John says. "Solve crimes. Be brilliant. Annoy the piss out of me and everyone else you know."

"You know just what to say," Sherlock tells him.

"Seriously, Sherlock, it'll all work out," John says. "Next week, it'll be like nothing ever happened."

"No, it won't," Sherlock says. He can't let so egregious a lie slip by, even if John is trying to comfort him. 

"Well, it'll be over, at any rate," John says. 

"Yes," Sherlock says, after a pause. 

"Let's get some sleep," John says.

Sherlock charges through the next few days in the exquisite clarity of tension. It is as if he is seeing everything all at once in its entirety. _What if_ , he thinks, _what if_. Possibilities open into possibilities, branching into fractals of potential. His mind is moving too fast; he can't keep up a conversation at a normal speed. He doesn't eat. He can't sleep next to John. He tries to sleep in his own lonely, narrow bed, his bachelor's bed, and climbs out after a few minutes to spend the dark hours surfing the internet, paging through textbooks, anything to keep his mind off the trial. Obviously, it doesn't work, but at least he has plenty of information at his fingertips. Mrs. Hudson drops by and leaves cups of milky tea at his elbow. He drinks them absently and leaves the empty cups everywhere.

He waits and he thinks and two days seems like an eternity, and then suddenly he finds himself with John on the steps of the Old Bailey, cameras in his face. Security forces discovered a large portrait of Sherlock's face labeled "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" painted on the doors of the building sometime during the night. It was in every paper this morning. The artist is anonymous. Banksy, perhaps, or a copy cat - it takes a special brand of audacity to graffiti such a hallowed hall, but after Downing Street, Sherlock supposes nothing is much of a challenge. 

Flashes go off in his face. Microphones and digital recorders are thrust toward him. The gaggle of reporters sounds more like geese, wild and unintelligible. There are other people around, too, flocks of them hoping to catch a glimpse of Moran or of Sherlock. The public has warmed to him some. It seems that crimes were still committed in his absence, more and more heinous crimes, and now that he is back and solving some of them, people are disposed to think fondly of him again. They are wary, but they are polite. The reporters do not accuse Sherlock outright of fraud or deception, although they do ask him about the last trial. He declines to answer any questions. "What about Moriarty?" they shout, to which some in the crowd scream "Moriarty was real!" 

John looks at his watch. "Sherlock. We'd better go."

Sherlock nods. 

The building swallows him up.

\+ + + +

It is strange being back in the witness box. It is strange to see Moran there instead of Moriarty with his nice suit and his twisted smirk. Moran is really no match for Sherlock; in a way, he does miss Moriarty. Moriarty was cruel, wicked, and one might go so far as to say evil, but he had a wit and flair that Moran cannot summon. Moran just glowers at Sherlock; really, they could convict him on looks alone. Moriarty was too slick for that. 

"Poor old Sebastian," Sherlock can almost hear Moriarty say in that light, dangerous voice. "I tried to teach him about the importance of style. It's so difficult finding biddable minions these days, isn't it?"

Sherlock shakes it off as the first of the lawyers steps up.

"Mister Holmes, please relate to us your experience of the night on which the attempted assault was perpetrated."

Sherlock tells again of his stroll down the street and his glimpse of someone in the flat. He gives measured amounts of detail about the fight and how he subdued and restrained Moran. He carefully refrains from using the phrase "leapt out of the wardrobe". 

"Was there anything remarkable about the weapon you confiscated?" the lawyer asks.

"I defer to the expertise of Inspector Baynes and Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock says, humble in front of the jury. "However, the weapon had several modifications that seem to indicate its use in several unsolved murders. It had an unusual range and an unusual firing mechanism."

"Do you believe that it was Moran who committed these unsolved murders?" the lawyer presses. 

"My investigation suggests that Moran is an accomplished shot with a strong attachment to this modified weapon," Sherlock says. "I believe that he is responsible for these murders. I doubt that he would allow anyone else to use a similar weapon. It's extremely likely that any copycat would be killed to prevent any case of mistaken identity. Moran would want to be notorious as the only user of this particular weapon. Professional criminals need to maintain their reputations. However, at this point, I cannot definitively link Moran to any crime but the one I surprised him in the process of committing. I refer you again to Inspector Baynes."

"What is the link between Colonel Sebastian Moran and James Moriarty?" the lawyer asks.

"Sebastian Moran has in effect inherited the crime network that James Moriarty created," Sherlock says. "I believe that the previous murders that can be linked to Moran's gun were ordered by James Moriarty and carried out by Sebastian Moran. My investigation suggests that Moran had a privileged position in Moriarty's cadre and has taken control of the contacts that allowed Moriarty to coordinate criminal efforts."

"What proof is there that this network exists?" the lawyer asks. "James Moriarty professed to be an actor hired by you to take credit for several crimes committed in London. What evidence do we have that you are telling the truth now?"

Sherlock nearly smiles. Now they will bring out the volumes of evidence, all the photographs and recordings. He can give names and crimes, dates and times. He can weave together every thread that ties Moran to Moriarty and those that tie them to a multitude of cruelties and criminalities. He can talk about his lost year, his transgressions and his successes. He is ready. 

The presentation and the questioning lasts hours, dragging on into the next day when the jury are all yawning in their box. Up too early, most of them. The coffee at the secured facility must be substandard. Still the lawyers bring out more and more files and pictures, until the stunned whispers in the courtroom have faded into respectful, pensive silence. Even the judge looks thoughtful.

"No further questions," his lawyer finally says, and the judge declares that cross-examination will proceed. 

"Why did you fake your own death?" the other lawyer asks. 

"It was the only way I could leave the city, given the attention that was being paid to my actions," Sherlock says. "In essence, I entered into a witness protection program." 

"In essence?" the lawyer asks. "But not officially."

"Witnesses aren't usually comissioned," Sherlock tells him. "I'm afraid the rest is classified." This particular point was Mycroft's inspiration; it is an excellent explanation for his official apathy, and the documentation of Sherlock's various security details will stand up well enough. It is not precisely a lie. At least, it is no more a lie than the official statement that Irene had been placed into such a program. "I was eventually delivered to a safe house. It was never my intention to deceive the public. I had to protect this information. I knew it wasn't safe for me while James Moriarty was alive."

"And is he alive now?"

"No," Sherlock says. "He shot himself in the head in front of me in a last effort to ruin my reputation by linking me to his death." 

"And is there any proof of this?"

Sherlock takes a breath. Mycroft has promised that Molly will be protected. He has promised that Molly will suffer no harm from her association with Sherlock. "Molly Hooper at St. Bartholomew's Hospital performed an autopsy on the body almost immediately following the shot, prior to my apparent death. Her results confirmed that the fatal wound was self-inflicted. Unfortunately, the body, the file, and the weapon were all stolen from the morgue later that evening by unknown parties." 

The crowd murmurs and gasps. 

"Convenient," the lawyer says. "No evidence, then?"

"Ms. Hooper had the foresight to make copies of her files," Sherlock says. "The photographs are rather graphic, but we have these files available for you." 

"And why would James Moriarty want to ruin you?" the lawyer continues. "What reason do we have to believe that it shouldn't be you up there?" He nods to Moran, standing sullen in the box.

This is a moment of truth. He has been coached repeatedly on this point. _Don't get arrogant,_ John says with his eyes. "I don't know," Sherlock says. "I cannot provide psychological insight into the man. However, my impression of him was that he wanted to cause the greatest amount of suffering for the greatest number of people. For instance, he coerced the jury members in his trial by programming the televisions in their rooms to show threatening messages indicating that he would injure or kill members of their families. In that case, the 'not guilty' verdict seems to hold little water, as they clearly believed in his capability to carry out these threats."

"A good story," the lawyer sneers. "Can you prove it?"

Sherlock clears his throat. "Unfortunately, I neglected to record the conversation during which Moriarty confided in me how he'd accomplished that particular trick. However, Sebastian Moran tried a similar tactic. Unfortunately for him, this time, the televisions had several extra layers of security and they were being monitored. I was told that security forces managed to record various messages intended for members of the jury, all of which carried some threat to be perpetrated by Moran and his lieutenants. Even from custody, he is coordinating efforts through this crime network, according to directions left by Moriarty. Unfortunately, it's difficult to get good help these days - it seems that some of Britain's finest have managed to infiltrate this network over the last few weeks on my evidence and predict or divert and document these crimes."

The crowd really gasps at that one. Sherlock ignores them. There will be no contempt in the courtroom today, not on his part. He is playing a role, but he will play it well. When he catches John's eye, John beams proudly. Mycroft's lawyers smirk; they have, of course, testimony from the jury members, present and former, and the feeds from the televisions, all of it lined up for presentation.

"Well, well, well," says the ghost of Moriarty in his ear. "Are you going to pull it off this time? You never would, if I were still alive. I only wish I could have left my evil empire in more capable hands. Irene had the right ideas. It's a pity she became obsessed with you."

 _She wouldn't have done it_ , Sherlock thinks. 

"Wouldn't she?" Moriarty's ghost is amused. "Oh, Mister Holmes, you have so much to learn about the world."

Sherlock knows she wouldn't have taken over Moriarty's operation. She doesn't want that sort of responsibility. Irene doesn't want to watch the whole world burn; she just wants to strike sparks here and there. For a woman who specializes in causing pain, she has a surprisingly tender heart, and she knows the destructive power of heat. She plays with fire, and then she extinguishes it. She isn't Moriarty, caught up in the glory of the flame.

 _You'll lose_ , he thinks. _You won't haunt me any longer._

"Won't I?" Moriarty's ghost says. "I'm in your bones. I'm in your soul. There will never be anyone like me again. You'll never forget me, Sherlock. I'm The Villain."

Moriarty, he thinks, was living a fairy tale. He wanted Sherlock to look into a dark mirror and see his own face, but Sherlock has always avoided mirrors. There are things he knows he would rather not see. He may not be a hero, but he has carried a banner for the side of the angels when he could, for John's sake. It has been a long road and a hard one. Now it seems they have come to the end of the story. The Villain nearly always loses, at the very end of the story. 

"No further questions," the lawyer says, turning away as his staff scrambles madly among their papers.

They have the members of the previous jury up next, and then Baynes testifies, and she is an absolute star. She sounds reasonable and sensible and down to earth and every thing Sherlock is not. Sherlock listens to her testimony, slumped in a seat next to John. People smile at him as he walks through the gallery. Baynes discusses her methods, her investigation into Moran, her gradual sense that he was tied to a much larger operation, and the evidence she gathered. Much of it dovetails nicely with Sherlock's, although his is more varied and copious. The good Inspector didn't have the opportunities he had, after all: there is some advantage to being a dead man. He could go where he liked and do what he liked. He could use force if he had to. He had nothing to lose. Now it seems that he's gained a great deal. 

John's knee brushes surreptitiously against his and Sherlock feels a weight lift from his shoulders. Perhaps this time justice and mercy will go hand in hand. He can only wait and see: not his favorite occupation by any means, but he has no choice. He has done what he can to save the world. The angels may triumph or they may fall, as was and ever shall be, world without end. It is in hands of the court. Sherlock will keep his peace and hope that they rule for the greater good.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock knows something is different the moment he and John step out of Mycroft's car in front of 221B. Mycroft hasn't let them travel alone for the past little while. Sherlock can't complain - they are certainly saving on cab fare. He motions the car on, wishing now that he had taken some anonymous transport home. Mycroft will hear about this oddity. His assistant is really rather sharp, for all the time she spends on her phone. Sherlock raises his head, taking a breath of the wind. 

"Something wrong?" John asks.

"No," Sherlock says, carefully keeping his voice level. "Nothing at all, I think." 

He swings up the stairs ahead of John and pushes open the door of the flat. Irene is sitting is his armchair, running her fingers gently over the strings of his violin. 

"Hello, Sherlock," she says. 

"Irene," Sherlock says. She sets down his violin with gorgeous precision and stands. Sherlock crosses the room in three steps and wraps his arms around her. In his relief, he nearly lifts her off her feet. She tips her face towards Sherlock's and kisses him; it is difficult for Sherlock to pull away after a few moments and not lose himself in her kiss as he has so often before. He has no desire to injure John or be unfaithful, but the notion of infidelity when he loves them both is a strange one. He sets her down gently. She laughs and the sound of it is utterly charming. He is interested by the pronounced effect she has on him, now that he has given himself over to feeling and physicality in his relationship with John. He tucks his face against her hair, taking deep breaths of her. She is alive and well, wonderfully solid under his hands.

"What a lovely surprise," John says, clearly meaning the opposite. "Again."

"Hello, John," she says around Sherlock's shoulder. "How have you been?"

"Better," John says. 

"I imagine so," she says, a little wistfully. 

"Wonderful," John says. "What brings you to town? I thought you were playing dead."

"I was," Irene says. "But everyone loves a good ghost story, don't they? And I've got a hell of a story to tell. I thought Sherlock's brother might be interested in hearing it."

Sherlock releases her and steps back. He is aroused by the curvy warmth of her body, so different from John's. He is certain that all three of them know it, but he collapses into a chair and tries to camouflage. He is lucky that it has been chilly today and he is wearing his coat.

"What do you mean, my brother might want to hear it?" he demands. He is feeling fairly pleased with himself on all counts today, though he might suffer John's jealousy later. For now, he is pleased to ignore the potential consequences and bask in the enjoyment of having Irene and John in the same room. Perhaps John will understand. Sherlock is not particularly used to kissing people still, and he is certainly not used to mastering the urge to kiss people, as rare as it has been.

"What, you can link Moran directly to Moriarty?" John asks. "What have you got, photos on that camera phone of yours that Mycroft didn't find? No, let me guess, emails with plans for world domination. Secret codes for Sherlock to crack so that you can give away the information?"

"That isn't how I operate any longer," Irene says. "My loyalties lie elsewhere."

John scoffs. 

"You know I knew Moriarty," Irene says, settling back into Sherlock's favorite chair and stroking the violin with her fingertips so that it sings quietly. "Probably as well as anyone else did. Probably better than most. He sent me quite a number of photographs of the two of you." She leans forward, propping her elbows on her knees. "He never availed himself of my services - I wasn't his type - but others of his acquaintance did. One of them had some very interesting scars and some very interesting stories to tell. I suppose I have one of those faces that people just can't help confiding in." She bats her eyes.

"Exactly my thought," Sherlock murmurs facetiously. They smile at each other.

"Wonderful," John says. "I might as well pack my things. Remember, Hamish is as good a name as any to inflict on a child."

"Don't be absurd, John," Sherlock says. "Hamish is a terrible name."

"I'm not staying long," Irene says. "John. I'm not trying to interfere. I wanted to help."

"With what, exactly?" John asks, moving about restlessly. "I'm not quite certain we need any of your expert advice." 

"You might avail yourselves of my other professional knowledge," Irene says coolly. She examines her fingernails and looks up at him meaningfully. "I was in the business of acquiring and selling information as well as telling people how very bad they'd been as they groveled at my feet."

"Definitely something Mycroft might be interested in," Sherlock murmurs. "The former, I mean. I can't speak for the latter." 

"Shall I give my testimony?" Irene asks, her lips curving into a smile. "Rather late, I know, but it could be quite damning. I'm certain that someone on his legal staff would remember me."

John scowls. "Do you know everyone in London?"

"I know what they like," she says. "And what do you like, John? Aside from Sherlock, here."

"Peace and quiet," he says firmly.

She laughs. "You don't need to lie to me, old soldier. Once upon a time, you couldn't keep your eyes off me."

"He still can't," Sherlock observes. "Objectively, I'd have to say that he appreciates your beauty."

John turns red. "It's a natural response," he says. "As you might know, Sherlock."

"I'm not ashamed," Sherlock tells him. "I didn't want you to be angry."

John sighs. "I'm not angry," he says, but the words are stiff and hollow.

"You used to like me, John," Irene says softly. "After a fashion. What changed?"

"Everything changed," John says. "It's difficult to make polite conversation with the person who could waltz off at any moment and take your lover with them."

"Have a little faith," she says. "Sherlock deserves better than that, from you."

"As does she," Sherlock tells him. "She never wanted to keep me. She isn't trying to steal me away now."

"God no," she says. "Can you imagine the utter travesty of the two of us trying to make a go of it? We'd kill each other within three weeks."

"Disaster," Sherlock agrees. "Amor non vincit omnia."

"That's so convincing when you keep finishing each other's sentences," John says.

"It's a struggle for the upper hand," Sherlock tells him. "Love shouldn't be a battle."

"Sometimes true," Irene says. "Though if it were, I'd win."

"You wouldn't," Sherlock tells her. John rolls his eyes.

"The two of us aren't meant for the long run," she tells John. "The two of you are another story entirely. I don't want to change that."

"Just writing yourself into it," John grumbles, but he seems much less disgruntled.

Irene tilts her head. The look on her face is speculative and ever so slightly predatory. "Now there's an idea. A pleasant interlude."

"Ah," Sherlock says. "Interesting." That might solve his problems: he loves them both, he wants them both, he has them both, for whatever amount of time. He isn't clear on the mechanics of it, exactly, and there is a chance it might create more problems than it solves, but he might enjoy it all the same.

"What?" John asks, and then realization dawns. "Oh." 

Sherlock can tell that John wants to immediately say no, and also that John wants to immediately say yes. His eyes linger on Irene and then on Sherlock and then on Irene again. The silence stretches out between them. Sherlock will not say anything. He would like to make the most of his time with Irene, whatever that might entail; at the same time, he does not want to pressure John in any way. The three of them in bed together might be interesting, but it might be complicated. It's something he's not likely to have the opportunity to experience with any other two people. Sherlock would prefer not to disturb the easy rhythm of his life, and he does not want to lose either one of them. 

Mrs. Hudson's timing is either perfect or horrendous. She bustles into the flat with a plate of fairy cakes. 

"Hello, boys," she says. "I thought you might want a little something after your day in court. I didn't know you had someone over."

"This is Irene," Sherlock says. "Perhaps you've met her."

"Oh, I don't recall," Mrs. Hudson says. "There are so many people in and out and in and out. Lovely to meet you. I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. Not the housekeeper, whatever Sherlock may tell you. What a lovely girl you are."

"Thank you," Irene says, amused. "It's lovely to meet you."

"I thought you might not have eaten," Mrs. Hudson says. "It isn't much, but perhaps it will help take the edge off."

"Thanks, Mrs. H," John tells her. "We appreciate it." 

"It's no trouble at all," she says. "It's still so nice to have you both home again." 

"Glad to hear it," Sherlock says. 

"I hope you still feel that way after the trial is over," John says. "There's been a bit of a stir lately, hasn't there?"

"Oh, well, it'll all blow over," Mrs. Hudson says comfortably. "At least the reporters have stopped pitching tents on my front stoop." 

Irene yawns delicately behind her hand. "Excuse me. I'm rather jet lagged, I'm afraid."

"You can sleep in my bedroom," Sherlock offers. "I'm not using it."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes sparkle. "Just sharing the one, then?"

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says mock-sternly. "Have a little more faith in your intuition. You know full well we've been sharing."

"I had my hopes," she says, smiling. "I only want you to be happy, you know." 

"Well aware," Sherlock says. He pushes himself out of his chair and bows over Mrs. Hudson's hand before he takes one of the cakes. "Thank you."

"Ooh, you," she says. "I'll leave you all alone now."

"We always accept food," John teases her. "Only if you're making something, though."

"Not your housekeeper," she reminds him fondly. "Good night."

"Good night," John says, and Irene echoes it. Sherlock settles back into his chair, eating his fairy cake. He hasn't eaten much lately. He's hungry now. 

"We should get something in," he suggests. 

"You two enjoy that," Irene says. "I think it's time I caught up on some sleep."

"The bed's made," Sherlock offers. 

"Thank you," she says, smiling, "but I think Kate has found accommodations for me." 

"Kate," Sherlock says. "Your assistant."

"In a manner of speaking," Irene says.

"I think Kate and I would understand each other," John says. 

"You might establish a rapport of sorts," Irene says. "She did think you were sweet."

"I find that most women can't resist a man who pretends to set their house on fire," John says dryly. He sits back in his chair. "You can stay here if you want, though."

Irene smiles at him. The small wrinkle between John's brows smooths out a little. "Thank you," she says. "But I really do need to find Kate. I want you to know, John. I'm not here to cause trouble."

"I'm not sure you can help it," John says, smiling back at her. Sherlock smirks to himself. 

"Think it over," Irene suggests. "You can tell me tomorrow."

"About the lawyers or about the other thing?" John asks.

"The lawyers should know tonight," Sherlock says. "I'll text Mycroft. Let me know where you're staying."

"I will," Irene says. 

"Stay safe," Sherlock tells her.

"I will," Irene promises. "I've made it this far, haven't I?" She rises gracefully from her chair and kisses Sherlock on the cheek. He squeezes her hand gently and releases it as she crosses the room to John, leaning to kiss him on the cheek. Sherlock watches the two of them with interest. John's eyes close as her lips brush his skin. "You can tell me about the other thing later."

"I'll...think about it," John says. 

"You should," Irene teases. 

Irene is as good as her word: she texts Sherlock the name of her hotel and her room number. He passes her information on to Mycroft, who calls back. Sherlock ignores the phone. Mycroft will find her if he wants her, and if he wants Sherlock, he'll text. If Irene can help their case, Mycroft will follow her to the ends of the earth. Sherlock's stomach gurgles, digestive enzymes activated by the few bites of cake. "How about a Chinese?" he suggests.

"Perfect," John says. "I'll go pick up something."

"We don't have to do the other thing," Sherlock says. That seems to be the preferred euphemism. 

"I'm thinking about it," John says. "She is gorgeous, isn't she."

"She is," Sherlock agrees. "And extremely skilled, from my limited experience."

John shakes his head as if there's water in his ears. "Food. Now. The other thing later."

"The natural order of life," Sherlock says, and John laughs and shrugs on his coat.


	18. Chapter 18

They stay in most of the next day. Sherlock doesn't want to leave the flat. He has played his part in the trial. There is nothing more he can accomplish. It is better if he is here, not fidgeting in the court room. It is still raining. Sherlock picks up his violin and plays Beethoven and Debussy, dark smooth pieces that sound appropriate against the splashing and gurgling of the rain and the rattling patter as the cars disturb the puddles in the street. 

John is restless, making tea and more tea, flipping through his books, typing up bits of posts for the blog and then abandoning them. Finally he puts on his coat. 

"I'm going into the hospital for a while," he tells Sherlock, who plays John out. He understands John's jumpiness. Irene could disconcert anyone, and John is dealing with that in addition to the stress of the trial. Their future may hang upon the outcome of this; Sherlock is not certain he wants to deal with another situation like the Richard Brook fiasco. He will leave London if he must, and he will take John with him if he can, but he would rather not face that choice. He would rather not have John face that choice. Love doesn't always last to the ends of the earth.

Mrs. Hudson comes in and tidies up a few things. Sherlock plays a bright and jumpy little tune for her, some sort of interpretation of Copland. For all her talk about not being their housekeeper, she does love to fuss over them. Sherlock encourages that behavior. She chatters about Mrs. Turner's niece's baby and Sherlock listens and plays. He is deeply craving a cigarette and the clarity of mind that nicotine brings, but John has taken his cigarettes, and Mrs. Hudson will scold him if she smells them. When she leaves, he peels the backing off two nicotine patches and smooths them onto the tender, permeable skin of his inner forearm. He lies down on the couch and gazes up at the ceiling, not really seeing anything but imagining the play of the molecules in the air.

 _What if_ , he thinks, _what if they fail to convict Moran?_ Will it be as it was before? Moran isn't clever enough to pull off a Reichenbach act, but Sherlock is weary of the public's changeable affections, and they may turn on him as passionately as they embraced him before. It isn't that he particularly minds being reviled - he has never been personally well-liked, even when the people clamored over his accomplishments - but it is tiring pushing against the tide of opinion just to be able to do his work. And what if Moran is convicted? Will he be celebrated? He has never wanted fame, except as far as it permitted him a certain freedom in his work. 

Sherlock closes his eyes and lets the nicotine work, speeding the processing of his mind. He feels wide awake and aware. He misses the timing of smoking and the way it organized his thoughts, the slow drag and the pause and the measured exhale. He misses the mysterious way that smoke smudges the boundaries of things. It is a lovely ritual; if it did not impair the performance of his body, he would never have given it up, but he needs to be able to run without gasping. These days he has more to live for anyway. 

Thought follows thought; Sherlock hunts down each path until he runs the logical ending to ground. If the verdict is guilty as he hopes, he will have an easy time of it, ensuring that his name is cleared and his skills are used. If not, there are other ways. He will be hunted, if he does not leave London. Frankly, he will probably be hunted either way, but he will not surrender. He will not die again. He will not bow his head. He has plans now. He is prepared for any eventuality. He peels off the patches and drops them into the bin. His mobile buzzes: a text from Mycroft that simply says "Thank you." 

"How will you protect her?" Sherlock texts back.

He can almost hear Mycroft's supercilious smirk. "I employed her."

Sherlock does not deign to reply. It is an elegant solution. Irene certainly has the capability to unearth a great number of secrets. It is better to have her in the service of the nation than working to undermine it.

The door opens downstairs and John comes up, his footsteps slow and thoughtful. Sherlock puts the kettle on and leans on the counter as the door opens.

"I can't stop thinking about it," John begins abruptly as he takes off his coat. "But I'm no more sure about what to do than I was at the beginning. Sherlock. This is an incredibly stupid idea."

"If you say so," Sherlock says. He trusts John to provide the human perspective.

"On the other hand, it's tempting," John says. "Who wouldn't want to sleep with her, first of all? It's a fantasy come to life. Honestly, if I were going to have a threesome, it's probably the perfect combination. You'd be there. And she'd be there." 

"I would imagine that there are many people who would leap at the chance no matter what the conditions were," Sherlock points out. 

"My first instinct is to say no," John says. "I can't help feeling like she's got some other motive here. I mean, she's The Woman. That's something she does." 

"I don't think that she's trying to drive a wedge between us," Sherlock says slowly. "I think that she is trying to give us a gift. It is...freeing, to give up control. It allows one to do things one wants to do but cannot ask for." 

"Mmm," John says, brooding. 

"There's no pressure," Sherlock says. "No obligation."

"But you want to do it," John says. "Don't you." 

Sherlock considers. "I have no reason not to want to," he tells John. "I have considerable regard for both of you. I know that my feelings about her don't change my feelings about you, and won't change the fact that I prefer to be with you. And I don't have your scruples about infidelity, though for your sake, I try to be mindful of these things."

"Huh," John says. "I don't trust her."

"You have no reason to," Sherlock says.

"And you do?" John asks. "After everything?"

"Yes," Sherlock says simply. "I trust her."

"She tried to betray you," John reminds him. 

"Of course she did," Sherlock says. 

"Do you not see the contradiction there?" John demands. 

"Yes," Sherlock says. "And no. She walked into Moriarty's trap as so many others did. She had no choice but to betray me. He would have killed her."

"There is that," John murmurs.

Sherlock puts one finger to his lips, thinking. "Aside from that, her love of mischief is part of her charm. It took a peculiar courage to try to hold all of Britain hostage. Admirable, really. Not many people can give Mycroft fits like that."

"You have a very strange set of standards for what's charming," John says. 

The kettle whistles. Sherlock sloshes hot water into the teapot and pours it out again before he drops in the ball of tea and fills the teapot. He gets out two cups and two saucers and a packet of biscuits. They're the nice cups, not the everyday mugs, and they'll need to be washed later, but he'll need something to occupy himself. John stands there lost in thought. Sherlock waits. He could honestly do the thing or not do the thing; it would be a pleasant diversion while he waits for the verdict, and he misses that aspect of his relationship with Irene. He'd rather not risk John's being upset, though. 

The tea steeps. The comforting scent of it fills the quiet between them. Thoughts and emotions chase each other across John's open face. Sherlock taps the counter, practicing the fingering for a new song. After a few minutes, he lifts the teapot and pours two cups, adding a touch of cream to John's and sugar to his own. He pushes the saucer carefully across to John. John picks it up and drinks absently, scalding himself, no doubt. 

"It's a terrifying thought," he says at last.

"I thought that made it attractive," Sherlock says, sipping at his own tea.

"It does," John says. "But it frightens the piss out of me all the same."

"There's no obligation," Sherlock reminds him. "Soon enough she'll be gone."

John sighs. "That's what makes it difficult. It's a one-off, yeah? Limited time offer."

"One assumes," Sherlock says. "I doubt she'll be coming back any time soon, if ever." A rather tragic thought, but he's not built for that particular melancholy. He'll miss her, but he won't waste away without her. 

"I don't want to regret doing it," John says. "But I don't want to regret not doing it."

"My own experiences were exceptionally satisfying," Sherlock offers. "If that helps."

"It really doesn't," John says with feeling. 

"As you like," Sherlock says. He drinks his tea.

"Fuck," John says softly. He stars into his teacup, as if he can read the future in the swirl of the cream.

"We could have dinner with her," Sherlock offers. "She's staying at the Savoy. Surely they have a restaurant."

"Yes, Sherlock, they have a restaurant," John says, shaking his head. "All right. Send her a text. I ought to make friends with her, if nothing more. For your sake."

"It's only dinner," Sherlock says. 

John looks up at the ceiling. "Yes. All right."

Sherlock takes out his phone and texts her. "Let's have dinner 9 p.m. SH." She texts back much later: "Wear something nice." Sherlock shows it to John, who makes a tsk noise.

"I didn't think of that," he says. "Come on. Get dressed."

"What's wrong with this?" Sherlock asks. "The shirt has buttons."

"Not for the Savoy," John says firmly. "Up you get. Find a tie, would you - it'll be dead embarrassing if they turn us away because you didn't feel like bowing to convention."

Sherlock lets John fuss at him as they both shower and dress. Sherlock does manage to find a tie, which John straightens for him three or four times. Sherlock admits that John looks handsome in his suit. They are ready absurdly early, hours too early, and Sherlock does research on the internet and haunts the forums of his website while John fidgets. Eventually, Sherlock drags John downstairs to where Mycroft's car is waiting and has them driven to a place where they can walk around. John calms down slightly out in the open air, moving with purpose even though they have no goal.

"It's all right, John," Sherlock says. "It's only dinner."

"Right," John says. "Just like guilty is only a word."

Sherlock surveys the park. "If it means that much to you, don't even consider it."

"It means something to you," John says. "If it'll give you a moment of relief from the stress of all this, how could I not consider it?"

"Ah," Sherlock says. "Love."

"Unfortunately," John says. Sherlock touches his back briefly. "That and God, I miss tits."

Sherlock laughs.


	19. Chapter 19

The streets of London have a strange breathlessness. Sherlock broods in the car on the way to the hotel. Will his city be a haven or an ersatz underworld, gleaming in the sun as dark deeds are accomplished? In his own way, he has fought for his country. He has fought for his city. It would be painful to see his work undone and his city overrun. He wonders how Irene sees it. He imagines her perspective is somewhat different.

Irene is there in the lobby at the appointed time, looking extremely sleek and whispering to her assistant Kate. Sherlock can thank his notoriety for the fact that they have a table: the maître d' refused until John declared that it was for Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock supposes at this point that it doesn't matter if he's succeeded or not in indicting Moran: scandal sells just as well as success, if not better. Irene takes John's arm as they go into the dining room, so Sherlock offers his to Kate. 

"Nice to see you again," Kate says. 

"Likewise," Sherlock says. "I hope you've been well in the absence of your mistress."

"I get along," Kate says with a pretty little shrug. If Sherlock were particularly interested in seducing people other than John and Irene, Kate might be fairly high up the list. Fortunately, his life is unlikely to suffer further complication in that arena. 

Dinner is delicious. Sherlock orders extravagantly, as he suspects Mycroft is footing the bill. The wine flows freely. Sherlock eats and drinks and watches and listens. John gazes at Irene, suspiciously at first and then with more and more friendliness as she makes conversation and does nothing at all to cause Sherlock's downfall. Irene quirks her mouth in a smile meant just for Sherlock and pours on the charm. She and Kate are a lovely double act, dark hair and red close together, gestures perfectly artful. John tells stories from the hospital and relates some of Sherlock's greatest blunders, to the amusement of all. Sherlock is genuinely enjoying himself by the end of the meal, and not just because Irene occasionally brushes her foot against his shin under the table and John reaches down to squeeze his thigh. He can tell that John doesn't want the night to end as they linger over dessert, and so he suggests champagne at the bar. The four of them go through two bottles and then Irene orders another delivered to her suite.

"You simply must see the view," she says. "I'm in the Monet suite. It's exquisite."

The ploy is transparent. They go up anyway. Irene leans lightly against Sherlock in the elevator and John smiles at them. Sherlock is sure that John's contentment has nothing at all to do with the close proximity of Kate. John always was susceptible to a pretty face. The four of them saunter down the corridor to Irene's room, Irene with her arms linked through Sherlock's and John's both now. Kate opens the door and draws the curtains. Irene was right: the view is fantastic. John opens the champagne and pours four glasses. They sip at the bubbly alcohol as the lights of London shimmer in the ripples of the Thames.

"This is nice," John announces from the window. 

"Did you think it wouldn't be?" Irene asks. She is sitting next to Sherlock on the sofa, her hand resting on Sherlock's knee. Kate watches them all from an armchair, smiling to herself.

"Honestly, yes," John tells her. "I thought I'd be miserable and jealous and angry, but it's really quite..." he searches for a word and comes up with "...nice." 

"There's no reason to be jealous," Irene says, sipping at her champagne. "I could never woo Sherlock away from you. I doubt I could even distract him for very long."

"Long enough," John says. "If you wanted."

"Any span of time is too long?" Irene asks, amused. Sherlock drapes his arm over the back of the sofa and caresses the nape of her neck with his fingertips. "Come now, John. You can't have him to yourself all the time."

"I never have him to myself," John says. "Everyone wants a piece of Sherlock Holmes." 

"I'm not taking him away," Irene tells him. "I just want to share him for a little while. A very little while." 

John gazes at her. He looks at the glass in his hand and throws back his champagne. "Another one of these and we'll see," he says. Kate hefts the bottle and tops him up. When John's glass is empty again, Irene rises and takes it from him and then kisses him very gently on the cheek. He watches her, half-hypnotized. 

"You told me you were gay," he says. "In the power station that night."

She shrugs elegantly. "It seemed simpler than explaining that I'm primarily but not exclusively attracted to women, not that I owed you any explanation. Sherlock is an exception, but not a rarity. Dominating people is another game entirely, mind - that doesn't even have to deal with sex, necessarily."

"Are you going to dominate me?" he asks. Sherlock can see that John's eyes are wide and his shoulders are tense, his posture anticipatory. Irene is excellent at inspiring that fight-or-flight response that so often leads to the third option of taking all one's clothes off and submitting oneself utterly to her will.

"Would you like me to?" she asks. It isn't even a purr. John ought to appreciate that, Sherlock thinks. Irene's treating him like an equal, for now. 

"Maybe," John says. 

"He would," Sherlock tells her. "He's being coy because it terrifies him. In a good way."

"Sherlock!" John hisses.

Sherlock shrugs. "There wasn't any point in dissembling," he says. "She's rather expert in these matters."

"Kate," Irene says, "please take John to the room. I'll be in shortly." 

Kate raises an eyebrow at John and he follows her, looking over his shoulder at Irene and Sherlock. Irene comes back to the couch and sits next to Sherlock.

"Any other insights?" she asks, brushing her lips against his cheek. He searches for the pins in her hair and removes a few as she nuzzles at him, releasing her curls to fall across her face. 

"There are things he'd like to do," Sherlock says, "but he holds back. It would make it too real, to be sleeping with a man. It isn't lack of love, but lack of habit, and fear of the unknown. It frustrates him that he feels he's holding back - he doesn't want to, but he doesn't know how to proceed, and the two of us are equally inexperienced when it comes to men."

"Mmm," Irene says thoughtfully. "There's only so much I can do with one night."

"I think we can make it the rest of the way on our own," Sherlock tells her. "But a little push in the right direction wouldn't go amiss. He likes to be in charge, generally. I suspect that for you he'd make an exception."

Irene smiles and holds out her hand. "Shall we, darling?"

"I've missed you," Sherlock tells her, taking her hand and rising. 

Her smile grows broader. "I know. Give us a moment."

Sherlock waits at the half-open door. He watches Irene go to John and lay her pale hand on his chest. John looks slightly startled, still wary. Irene's hand slides up to his shoulder and then around his neck to the back of his head. She pulls him close enough to whisper in his ear. Sherlock can't hear what's she's saying, but John's expression darkens and then eases. She kisses John on the cheek and then, softly, on the lips. John kisses her back. Sherlock watches them. He ought to feel jealous, he thinks. Instead it's rather stimulating to see the two most attractive people he knows locked in a passionate embrace. How convenient it seems it would be for him if he could have them both close all the time, though reality is without a doubt much less pleasant and much more difficult. He will take what measure of peace he is granted. So he waits and watches and eventually, Irene beckons to him.

John is sitting on the bed when Sherlock goes in, his coat hung over a chair and his shirt half-unbuttoned. His cheeks are flushed and his breathing is uneven. Kate lingers long enough to remove the rest of the pins from Irene's hair, gently brushing out the glossy locks with a tenderness that Sherlock is glad of. At least Irene will not be lonely when she goes. Irene kisses her lingeringly and Kate shows herself out, leaving just the three of them. John swallows hard.

"Don't be frightened," Irene says, sitting next to him. She undoes the last few buttons of his shirt. "Sherlock. A little help. In fact, why don't the two of you undress each other?" 

Sherlock is well-accustomed to this by now. He kisses John, distracting him while Sherlock's hands are busy undoing John's trousers. John responds in kind, kissing Sherlock back frantically. They fumble with each other's buttons, hands slightly unsteady after so much champagne. When they look back, Irene has stripped down to her lacy underthings. John's jaw nearly drops. Irene smiles. She saunters over to the two of them. Sherlock slips an arm around her, pulling her close. She kisses him as she runs her nails gently up and down John's back. John presses closer to the both of them and she turns her face and kisses him too. Soon she is pressed between their bodies as the three of them kiss each other, hungry mouths seeking whatever other mouth they find without discrimination. John's hips move gently but insistently, rocking the three of them on their feet.

"Not too quickly," she scolds him. "There's something you need to do for me, first."

"Anything," John says, dumb with desire. 

"Lie down, Sherlock," she commands. "John is going to wrap those lovely lips around your cock." John gapes at her for a moment and she narrows her eyes. "Now." Her voice is the crack of a whip. Sherlock sprawls, feeling the champagne bubbles coursing through his blood, and John crawls up next to him on the big bed.

"Sherlock," he says.

"It's all right," Sherlock mumbles. "You don't have to."

"I want to," John says fiercely. "I'm sorry I needed her to tell me to do it. It's not that I don't want to do all these things. I just need direction, sometimes - it's new."

"It's all right," Sherlock reassures him, and then John is sliding down his body, curling his fingers around Sherlock's cock. He regards it with a dubious expression for a moment and then takes it in his mouth. Sherlock's thoughts melt away. John's technique is unsophisticated, but he makes up for it with enthusiasm. 

"Ah," Sherlock says. 

"Very nice," Irene says approvingly. 

"You," Sherlock says. "Come here." 

"Ah, ah, Sherlock, what do we say?" she demands.

"Are you going to make me beg?" he asks.

"You're just so pretty when you're humble," she says, giving him a wicked look from under her lashes. "And now that you mention it, yes. Beg."

"Please," he says. John moans as he watches them, his tongue still working over Sherlock's cock.

"Twice," she says crisply, and John moans again.

"Please," Sherlock says. He is beginning to be overstimulated by the rough flicker of John's tongue and the heat of John's mouth. He needs to touch _someone_. 

Irene sidles closer. Sherlock stretches out an arm and slides it around the backs of her smooth thighs, pulling her onto the bed. He nuzzles at her thighs, sliding his fingers against the lace between her legs, using every trick she's taught him even as his brain melts. John reaches up to stroke Irene's skin - apparently he's not worried about suffocating in a moment of distraction the way that Sherlock was. Sherlock, tipsy, is losing control; he can't help his hips bucking slightly, thrusting into John's mouth, but John seems well aware of his own limits. His fist wrapped firmly around the base of Sherlock's cock keeps Sherlock from overwhelming him. The rhythm of John's tongue falters slightly as the fingers of his other hand slide under the lace of Irene's knickers, and after a moment, Sherlock tugs at him and pulls him up so that they're all on the same level, all running their hands over each other as Irene directs them. It's interesting for Sherlock to watch John with Irene: John has plenty of skill in that area, judging by her response, but he always keeps at least one hand somewhere on Sherlock. 

Sherlock holds Irene against himself as John takes a few swallows of water from a glass at the bedside, catching an ice cube between his teeth and applying it strategically between Irene's thighs. She gasps and kisses Sherlock as her fingers tighten around his cock. Champagne bubbles fizz under his skin and he buries his face in Irene's hair. Irene moans and John moans and Sherlock moans and there is more going on than Sherlock can keep track of. Irene cradles him close and urges him inside her as John is behind him, thrusting into the crease of Sherlock's thigh, but after that, everything is a delicious blur. All he knows is that there is miles and miles of beloved skin against his, hot and damp and insistent, and he responds to their demands, the actions nearly natural now. 

The night is a blur of pleasure after pleasure, the three of them moving in blissful synchronicity until the room echoes with their cries. It is glorious. It is astounding. It is beyond Sherlock's capacity to understand, but he presses himself between them and lets them explain everything words could never say, and then, after more time than he can calculate, they sleep.


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock wakes up the next morning sprawled across the bed with John's arm flung across his chest and Irene's hair in his mouth. He disentangles himself carefully from them and hunts for his phone - his text tone woke him. 

"Jury is sequestered," Mycroft's message reads. "All is secure."

Irene is awake and looking at him when he turns back to the bed. "Good morning, lover."

"The jury's in," he tells her.

"Then you'll need something to take your mind off it, won't you?" she says. "Wake John. I'll be in the shower. I'd take you alone, but I don't think that would sit very well."

"No," Sherlock agrees, and watches her as she rolls out of bed and sashays off to the bathroom. He strokes John's back until John wakes up.

"Morning," John says muzzily. "I don't regret it. Except maybe the champagne, oh God, that was a lot of champagne."

"Hopefully one day I'll wake you up after sex and you won't have to specify that you don't regret it," Sherlock teases. "Come and wash up."

The shower is excellent and the water deliciously hot as it patters down from the broad shower head. The soap is fragrant and appropriately slippery; it helps a great deal to reduce the friction between three bodies as they slide against each other, gasps and groans magnified by the tiled walls. Love is much less sticky when the aftereffects can be sluiced away, Sherlock finds, sliding his fingers into Irene over and over until she goes limp in John's arms, her knees too weak after three orgasms to hold her up any longer.

Kate appears again to help Irene dress, carrying a case of makeup with her. John and Sherlock shrug back into last night's clothes in the living room of the suite. The view over the river is just as lovely in the daytime. Sherlock is glad of it. There is coffee steaming on a tray and they both drink it, squinting into the morning light. After a while, Irene emerges, radiant, with Kate at her side. 

"We're leaving this afternoon," she announces.

"Marching orders from my brother?" Sherlock inquires.

"Something like that," Irene says, gazing at him levelly. 

"Where are you going?" John asks politely.

"I can't say," she says, going to him. "I'm glad you came by."

"So am I," he says, taking her by the hands and kissing her on the cheek. "Thank you for telling me what I wanted." 

"Any time," she promises.

"Except that you're leaving," John says.

"Except for that," she agrees. "Some miracles only happen once in a lifetime."

"True," John says, releasing her hands. 

She crosses the room to Sherlock, who leans down to kiss her lingeringly. Her lips are very soft and very warm, and she sighs as she presses against him.

"Good bye, Sherlock," she says.

He pulls her close one last time, trying to hold her perfume in his lungs like sweet smoke. "Keep in touch." 

"Perhaps," she says.

"Text me," he says. "I might even text you back."

"I wouldn't want to complicate things," she says.

"That's new," he murmurs.

"Yes, it rather is," she says, gazing up at him. They look at each other for a long poignant moment, and then Sherlock kisses her cheek and steps away. She stands in the center of the room and watches him and John leave. Kate closes the door softly behind them.

John lets out a long breath. "Now what?"

"Now we go home to wait," Sherlock says.

"Sounds excellent," says John. "Breakfast?"

"The greasier the better," Sherlock agrees.


	21. Chapter 21

They eat at Speedy's. It seems the easiest solution: appropriately greasy and copious. Sherlock drinks two more cups of coffee and John forces three glasses of water on him along with a couple of paracetamol. Sherlock suspects that both of their heads are beginning to pound from the aftereffects of the champagne. He takes the pills: he'll need to be at his best. Full and weary, they climb the stairs to the flat. Sherlock takes out another nicotine patch - just one, under John's keen gaze - and applies it to his arm. He lies on the sofa. John sits down and opens his computer, and the tip-tapping of the keys is soothing.

Sherlock closes his eyes and thinks of music. The nicotine filtering through his blood makes each note as clear as a bell, and then he is thinking of bells. _Oranges and lemons, brickbats and tiles._ No part of London is without its secrets or its underbelly. He will never know every secret way through his city, though he has London in the soles of his feet and London in his heart and bones. That's charming, somehow. _When shall you pay me? When I am rich. Pray when will that be?_ He has never been a rich man; he has never cared for wealth or stability. That is different, with John. John cares about these things. Ever since the Blind Banker, as he called it in his blog, John has cared. Sherlock wonders that he did not marvel at their domesticity before. He sinks deeper into the couch. The last of the champagne weighs heavily on his brain, but the fumes are no match for the bracing power of caffeine and nicotine and non-steroidal anti-inflammatories.

 _Here comes a candle to light you to bed._ He thinks of candle wax, of the blue inner gleam of a flame, of the stoichiometry of exothermic reactions. There is balance in chemistry. There is balance in all things, however long it takes to reveal itself. For every action, a reaction. For every reaction, a catalyst. It takes a spark to kindle a flame. It takes a spark to cause an explosion. Has he been the catalyst for a clean burn, a controlled cauterizing of a wound in society, or will the whole thing blow up in his face again? 

_Here comes a chopper to chop off your head._ He thinks of Irene, remembers hefting the sword as he stood over her. Some part of him would never have healed if she had died that day. _Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes and she shall have music wherever she goes._ Some part of him will never be at peace now that she is gone. But some greater part of his heart has begun to mend itself, cracks he was barely aware of smoothing over, and that is thanks to John. 

Oranges and lemons, apples and pears. Sherlock taps the tips of his fingers together. Nursery rhymes, twaddle invented to entertain children with a history they're unaware is true. Irene would have made a lovely Lady Godiva, whipping her white horse through the town in protest of injustice, and the bells do speak, if one knows how to listen. He walks through the rooms of his mind palace, reconstructing parabolas and the trajectories of projectiles. In another room he pushes his way through a veritable maze of botanical specimens, brushing his fingers over the leaves of plants and tracing the shape of strange blossoms. He has an esoteric span of knowledge. He is pleased that it includes some inkling of love. It gives him a sense of what he might lose today.

The jury has been deliberating for hours now. He has been on this sofa forever, pacing the halls of his own mind. When his mobile buzzes, he snatches it up, not even caring that it's a call and not a text.

"What?" he demands. Across the room, he sees John catch his breath, waiting.

"Guilty," Mycroft says. "Well done, little brother."

"Guilty," Sherlock breathes. 

"Guilty?" John asks. "Fan-bloody-tastic."

Mycroft is still talking, but Sherlock rings off. He drops his mobile on his chest and lies there, very very still. _Guilty_. The word floats through his mind. _Guilty._ Suddenly he leaps up.

"Guilty!" he shouts, stamping on the floor. "Guilty!"

John flings up his hands. "Guilty!"

Mrs. Hudson comes up the stairs. "Boys! What is all this crashing about for?"

Sherlock catches her up in his arms and waltzes her around the room. "Guilty guilty guilty!"

Mrs. Hudson giggles. "Sherlock! What are you on about?"

"Sebastian Moran!" Sherlock says. "The man who tried to kill John, surely you remember. He's going to be put away for a very, very long time, and I am redeemed. I shall remain in London forever, employed as the world's only consulting detective, along with my faithful blogger, and, of course, my delightful landlady." 

"Well that's good, isn't it," Mrs. Hudson says. "I wouldn't want to have to find another pair of tenants as troublesome as you are, at my age. It would take much too long."

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says solemnly. "Are you...teasing me?"

She giggles and he chuckles too and spins her around the room one more time. John's mobile rings and it's Harry - Sherlock can tell by the way John's voice changes when he talks to her. Then Sherlock's mobile rings and he ignores it, so Mycroft texts instead, and then Lestrade texts, and Molly, and Mike Stamford, and John's up to his elbows in blog comments and texts himself, so finally they give up on it all and text Lestrade and Molly for a meet up at the pub. They're mobbed as soon as they step out the door, of course, but Sherlock has been preparing his remarks all day, and he puts on his most charming and affable act. Just this once, he can give them what they want.

"Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes! What do you think of the guilty verdict in the Moran trial?"

"I'm very pleased that justice has been served and that a desperate predator is behind bars where he belongs," Sherlock says. "We can all sleep a little easier tonight."

"How did you know that Moriarty lied and that he threatened the jury and manipulated the trial?"

"For a start, it's my business to know," Sherlock says. "My research and my investigation lead me to believe that he would stop at nothing to destroy my reputation - the best method of accomplishing that was to get himself tried and exonerated and then to blame me for his crimes." He pauses for effect. "Also, he told me so." That gets a laugh. "I'm just pleased that my name has been cleared and I can get back to doing my work and solving crimes rather than being falsely accused of committing them."

"Is it all over now, Sherlock?"

"Of course not," he says. "Criminals like Sebastian Moran don't work alone - I anticipate many more months in the courtroom before all of his cohorts are off the street for good. But it's a start."

"Did you know about the surprise testimony of Irene Adler?"

"I had a hunch she might have something to say," Sherlock says. "I'm grateful that she was willing to say it, and potentially risk her life. She deserves the thanks of the British people."

"What about the syndicate? What will happen next?"

Sherlock considers. "I hope the London police are ready for a fight, because they've got one coming to them. I hope to be an ally in that struggle."

"Do you believe in Sherlock Holmes?" someone asks John.

"I do, absolutely," John says firmly. 

"Are the rumors that you've finally made it work between you true?" asks one of the gossip rags. "Has the confirmed bachelor tamed the heart of the untouchable Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock looks at John and John looks at Sherlock and then John reaches up and pulls Sherlock's head down and kisses him. The crowd goes absolutely wild, flashbulbs popping and delighted exclamations.

"Figured they'd catch on sooner or later," John murmurs, his face still pressed against Sherlock's. "At least this way we had it under control."

For an answer, Sherlock kisses him back. They're not in Times Square, but it's a victory kiss all the same. Let them come, all the Morans and Moriarties. He's ready. He has his wits and his Watson.

Finally the reporters stop swarming and let them through. The car is waiting at the curb. Mycroft's assistant smiles at them, a real smile, and then goes back to her phone. John leans forward and gives the driver the address of the pub that the police frequent - it seemed a logical choice for this excursion. Baynes and Donovan and Dimmock are in the pub, crowded around the table with Molly and Lestrade and Mike Stamford, to whom Sherlock owes a great deal, when he thinks of it. He can never repay Mike for bringing John into his life. Baynes' eyes are bright with victory, and even Donovan is smiling a little.

"Nice one, freak," she says, and it almost sounds affectionate.

"Thank you," Sherlock tells her.

"Yes, it all worked out, didn't it?" Molly chirps. Lestrade puts his arm around her and they smile gooey smiles at each other. Sherlock refrains from rolling his eyes. They can't help the chemical cocktails their bodies produce in an effort to ensure the proliferation of the human race. Anyway, love is pleasant. He's glad they're happy. 

Dimmock and Baynes and Donovan are talking shop, Baynes explaining her personal methods of deduction. Sherlock admits they sound much less risky than his, if somewhat less inspired. He supposes not everyone can be a mad-scientist-style genius - it's lonely work anyway, and good help is so hard to find. Donovan seems more inclined to listen to Baynes than she ever did to Sherlock. He wishes her well. She could use a few more friends, Sergeant Donovan, and better, cleverer friends than Anderson. Dimmock seems to be coming along. He'll never be anything incredibly special, not a Baynes and not even a Lestrade, but he's coming along. Sherlock looks forward to working with him, in the future. Perhaps Lestrade and Molly will hitch their wagons together and produce a few adorable children (for whatever value of adorable might apply) and Dimmock will take the Sherlock detail. Sherlock enjoys the idea that he might have a police handler. He doesn't really want to give up Lestrade quite yet, though. Lestrade is broken in. He's trained. In a manner of speaking, he's been Sherlocked. Sherlock can't help smirking to himself at that one.

"Earth to Sherlock," John says, smiling and lifting his pint, and Sherlock shakes his head and looks around the table. Lestrade, with his stubborn faith, and Molly, who always left a lamp in the window wherever he wandered. Donovan, who doubted him when he needed a tie to reality. Dimmock, who was easily led and easily followed. Baynes with her bright eyes and her very own methods, who wants to compare notes, of all things, rather than being dazzled by his mind. And John, of course. Always John. Forever John, he hopes, though there will be a struggle. Anything worth anything requires diligent struggle.

Sherlock knows that he will never be a hero. He is too selfish for that, too deep in the workings of the thing rather than the end result. But he has a hero to inspire him, to keep him on the side of the angels. Perhaps when he is worthy of John, he will finally be a good man. Perhaps when he is worthy of John, he will deserve to be called a great one.

There's a strange warmth in his chest. He picks up his own pint. 

"To absent friends," he says, for the lovely echo of tradition in it, "and to those who gather here. To peace. To the side of the angels."

"Amen," says John, clinking his glass against Sherlock's, and the others all say it too, and though he is not a religious man, Sherlock has faith in the bright faces and the steady hearts of the people around him. It is enough and more than enough, an embarrassment of riches.  


The pugilist at rest, he thinks. He presses the back of his hand against the back of John's, and happiness rises in him like the first bright rush of spring, life welling back into the world after the winter's dark and cold. He is weary of the dark. He will walk in the light and cherish the warmth. He will live, finally and truly, and he will love, and all manner of things shall be well. 

"Come on, Sherlock, penny for your thoughts," Lestrade says, tossing a coin on the table. 

"I'm...happy," Sherlock says simply. 

The whole table bursts into noisy, teasing applause. John is laughing and it's the sweetest music Sherlock has heard, and suddenly he's laughing too. He blesses Moriarty with his next sip of beer as he curls his fingers into John's. Without Moriarty, he would never have died. Without Moriarty, he would never have lived. Out of catastrophe came glory and delight and the love of this man beside him.

"I thought you were above all that human stuff," Mike says. 

Sherlock shakes his head and chuckles. "I overestimated myself."

"All for the best, really," John says. He looks at Sherlock with so much fondness that Sherlock thinks his heart will crack his ribs trying to contain all his joy, but it's good, it's bliss, and he hopes it never ends.

"To happiness," Molly offers, gazing again at Lestrade, and they all lift their glasses.

"To happiness," they echo, and it's a prayer and a vow. It's a candle lit to hold back the dark, and Sherlock knows that they will light the whole world with kindling like this. He imagines them all cupping the tiny flames, these people around this table and Irene and Kate and Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. In his mind, they glow like stars and he glows among them, no brighter than the brightest but in his rightful place at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this story! It's finally complete. I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
